WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN 




I'm-: Pessimist looked irresistible on her Donkey. 



WITH A PESSIMIST 
IN SPAIN 






BY 



MARY F. NIXON 



ft-J^t" 




CHICAGO 
A. C. McCLURG ANT) COMPANY 




TWO COPIES RECEIVED 



*$y 



Copyright 

By A. C. McClurg and Company 

a. d. 1897 



TO MY MOTHER 



CONTENTS. 

T ER PAGE 

I GIBRALTAR, - - - II 

II TANGIER, ... 33 

III CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITY - - 51 

IV "LA MARAVILLA," - - 65 
V SEVILLE, THE FAIR, - j6 

VI SPANISH DANCES, - - 93 

VII FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA, - IO3 

VIII THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA, - Il8 

IX THE GENERALIFE, - - I34 

\ LEGENDS BY THE WAY, - - I $1 

XI CORDOVA AND LA MESQUITA, - 164 

XII TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS, - 175 

XIII "TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED AMONG 

THE WARS OF WAMBA'S TIME," - 189 

XIV IN OLD MADRID, - - - 200 
XV PICTURES OLD AND NEW, - 2\$ 

XVI FROM ARANJUEZ TO SEGOVIA, - 228 

XVII THE ESCORIAL AND AVILA, - 243 
XVIII "OLD TOWNS WHOSE HISTORY LIES HID 

IN MONKISH CHRONICLE AND RHYME," 262 

XIX " l'.URGOS, THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID," 279 

XX ALL THE WAY TO ZARAGOZA, - 302 

XXI A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY, - 328 

XXII THE SPANISH GENOA, - - 34I 

XX1I1 "ADIOS, ESPANA !" - - 353 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

"THE PESSIMIST LOOKED IRRESISTIBLE ON HER 

DONKEY," - - - Frontispiece 

THE MAIN STREET OF GIBRALTAR, - Facing 22 

THE MARKET OF TANGIER, - - 40 

II KILLO'S SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA, - 80 

; HE ALHAMBRA, - - - - Il8 

» "TH! WATER LAY LIKE A SILVER THREAD 

THROUGH THE CENTER OF THE COURT," 142 

"THE FIGURE STOOD OUT AGAINST THE BLUE 

SKY," .... !52 

, THE GATE OF THE SUN, TOLEDO, - - 182 

THE PLAZA MAYOR, MADRID, - - 2IO 

THE GREAT SEGOVIAN AQUEDUCT, - - 236 

HUELGAS, THE FAMOUS CONVENT, - 2Q4 

THE LEANING TOWER OF ZARAGOZA, - 320 

VSTERV AT MONTSERRAT, - - 33O 



WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 



CHAPTER I. 




GIBRALTAR. 

HE Pessimist is my most 
intimate friend. I have 
summered and wintered 
her, and while she is at 
times depressing, still she 
is a very good balance for 
my Mightiness, and she 
has a nice admixture of the sugar and spice 
of which little girls are made. 

I have deliberately planned many tests fear- 
ful to so brittle a thing as feminine friendship, 
and the Pessimist and I have even liked the 
ie men, without hating each other. 
At last I determined to make a final effort. 
"Pessimist," I said, "but one thing re- 
mains. We will travel together." 

I lie Pessimist smiled her sad, sweet smile. 
I, sweet smiles may be poetic, but poetic 
things are sometimes very exasperating.) 

'We will go to Spain," I said, emphatically. 
>ain !" she gasped. 
1 1 



12 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"We '11 be captured by brigands and in- 
quisitioned and stilettoed and vendettaed 
and — " 

"Nonsense, Pessimist! You're sadly 
mixed," I said. 

"Vendetta's Corsica, stiletto's Italy and the 
rest are relegated to the Middle Ages. We 
are going to the land of the Hidalgo and Low 
Dago. It takes nine days to get there and 
you land at Gibraltar," I added practically. 

"Nine days!" sighed the Pessimist; "I 
shall be sea-sick nine whole days." 

"You won 't be, and if you are I '11 take 
care of you. Moreover the ship's doctor is 
sure to be adorable. He always is on the 
North German Lloyd Line. We can sail 
early in March," I remarked serenely. 

The way to manage the Pessimist is to take 
a great deal for granted. 

"You seem to have it all arranged," she 
said resignedly. "Perhaps you can tell me 
what I am to wear as a traveling dress?" 

"Certainly," I replied, with that cheerful 
insolence which forms so large a part of my 
character, and to which I owe my name of 
Optimist. 

"You '11 travel in your tweed suit and take 
a silk waist and three print shirts. We are 
going to see sights and not to carry luggage. 
Our entire paraphernalia will consist of two 



GIBRALTAR. 13 

hand-bags, two umbrellas, one Kodak and 
ourselves." 

"Have your own way about it," said the 
Pessimist solemnly. "But, if anything hap- 
pens to me, cholera infantum, or anything," 
(vaguely)"! shall never go any place with 
you again." 

"No, probably not; but nothing's going to 
happen, certainly not cholera infantum." 

(The Pessimist is usually truthful, and she 
says she 's thirty-eight. I think she 's for- 
gotten the first five years of her life, but as I 
was n't there until twenty years afterward, I 
never remind her of them.) 

Thus it was settled that we go to Spain; 
and go we did. 

Over the events of the voyage let us draw a 
veil. The Pessimist assures me that the table 
was excellent. She sampled it after the fifth 
day, and she also relaxed her pessimism suffi- 
ciently to say that there were pleasant people 
on board. 

I cannot dispute the fact with her. I was 
not on board, and there were no pleasant peo- 
ple in our cabin. 

There were two fiends for a part of the 
time and a wretched atom of humanity for 
long days and nights of torture. 

Suffice it to say that I did not fulfill my 
promise to take care of the Pessimist. 



1 4 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Fortunately for Europeans who depend 
largely upon travelers for their existence, one 
always reaches port a few hours before com- 
mitting suicide. 

On the morning of the tenth day I was able 
to sit up and notice things, and went on deck 
to find we had sailed by the Azores in the 
night, that Cape Saint Vincent was long 
passed, and Gibraltar a surety by four in the 
afternoon. I found, also, that the Pessimist 
was engaged in studying the guide book. 
This is something I never permit. If informa- 
tion is desired I prefer to have my traveling 
companion receive it in a diluted form after it 
has filtered through the sieve of my cerebrum. 

If she reads the Murray or Badecker her- 
self, she is likely to get it into her precious 
head that there is one particular thing she 
wants to see, and there is no rest for the 
weary until she has seen it. 

" Gibraltar is a rocky promontory three 
miles long and three-fourths of a mile wide, 
and its northern portion stretches to the prov- 
ince of Andalusia," read the Pessimist sol- 
emnly. " There are fifteen thousand inhabi- 
tants, consisting of Spaniards, Arabs, Jews, 
and English. The Bay of Gibraltar contains 
a great deal of fine shipping. The straits are 
fifteen miles wide and — " 

" Pessimist," I interrupted, ''do you mean 



GIBRALTAR. 1 5 

to say that you intend to read that guide- 
book in preference to talking to me ? I am 
surprised at you. Why do you care to know 
all those stupid details?" 

"I wish to know everything," she replied, 
stretching out her hands embracingly. I took 
advantage of this gesture to possess myself of 
the guide-book, remarking: 

"Very well, then, I will give you a few 
items of interest: 

"The Barbary ape is a small and very fes- 
tive animal who disports himself in the crags 
and peaks of Gibraltar. He is not found 
anywhere else in Spain. As he is not am- 
phibious he must have come over from the 
Barbary States by means of an underground 
passage beneath the straits." 

"That's very interesting," said the Pessi- 
mist. "I mean to see a Barbary ape." 

I gasped in despair. It served me right for 
insisting on having my own way. I knew my 
friend well enough to feel sure that no one 
could induce her to leave Gibraltar until she 
had seen an ape. Unless I could secure an 
organ-grinder's monkey to pose as the only 
original Barbary ape, I was lost. 

"They are seldom seen by strangers, being 
of a shy and retiring disposition," I said 
hastily. Then, to my delight, a timely inter- 
ruption occurred. 



1 6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

The day had been cloudy and a heavy fog 
obscured the way, but suddenly the sun burst 
through a bank of clouds, and without a mo- 
ment's warning the great rock seemed to 
spring at us with such a bound as to almost 
make me jump back. 

At first I saw only a huge, dark mass, rear- 
ing its haughty head even above the clouds 
which drifted across its rocky sides like dis- 
solving snow-banks. Then — as we drew 
nearer and nearer, the clouds disappeared 
entirely, things began to assume form and 
comeliness, and what had seemed a shapeless 
mass assumed the bold outline of the well- 
known mountain. 

The green patches on its sides proved to be 
trees, stone-pines, aloes, and rough cacti, and 
below this, as the last shimmering cloud 
raised its wings like a great white dove and 
floated heavenward, I saw the town, the won- 
derful, many-hued, strange, fascinating town 
of Gibraltar. 

There was the moss-grown ruin of the old 
Moorish castle, built by Abu-Abul-Hajes in 
725 A.D. Gibraltar is supposed to take its 
name from Tarik, the "one-eyed Berber* 
who took it in 711, Gebel-Tarik, or Hill of 
Tarik being the derivation. 

Below there were houses set on the hillside 
one above another like stair steps, their flat 



GIBRALTAR. 17 

roofs in soft shades of terra-cotta tiling, their 
walls painted in warm hues of blue, pink, 
lavender, rose, tawny brown, and cream, with 
lattices and vines and a bewildering variety of 
color. 

Beneath the houses was the wall, rising 
sternly from the wharf, and then came the 
water of the bay, of that indescribable blue 
which must be seen to be realized. With the 
sun glancing upon it and the whitecaps dan- 
cing until they fell from sheer exhaustion into 
a watery grave, and the blues of sea and sky 
melting into each other in perfect loveliness, 
I wondered how the Straits of Gibraltar could 
be considered so dangerous as they are. 

After feasting my eyes upon all this in 
silent admiration I turned to look at the Pes- 
simist, who beyond the first surprised "Oh!" 
had said nothing. I found her seated on her 
steamer-chair grasping the arms and staring 
with wide-open eyes and mouth at the rock. 
(The Pessimist's mouth is large, but fortu- 
nately the rock is stationary, else it might 
have fallen in, so widely had wonder dis- 
tended her lips). 

"Well, how do you like it?" I demanded. 
She gave me a disgusted glance. 

"I do n't like it at all," she said. 

"One doesn't expect to like a — a mon- 
strosity! It's one of the wonders of the 



iS WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

world. Do you realize that the highest point, 
Sugar Loaf, is fourteen hundred and thirty- 
nine feet above the sea?" And she craned 
her neck to get a view, of the very highest 
pinnacle, during which process her hat fell off 
and a gust of wind tossed her hair into a 
fkeval de frise. When I had righted matters 
I said very meekly, (for I saw plainly that I 
had not rescued my friend from the guide- 
book quickly enough and that she was not to 
be trifled with) : 

"Yes, dear, but it was not the rock but the 
town I wanted to know how you like." 

Then, seeing that she began to relent a lit- 
tle, I went on quickly: 

"We are to stay at the 'Calpe,' called after 
the old Greek name for Gibraltar. The Phoe- 
nicians sailed here and called it Alube, and 
this rock and Ceuta — that queer, dim outline 
across the straits — were the Pillars of Her- 
cules. These were the western edges of the 
world." 

I had begun with quite a flow of eloquence, 
but my oration was cut short by the appear- 
ance of the small boat which was to take us 
ashore, as our great ship dropped anchor in 
the bay. 

There was a great turmoil at the custom 
house, but we managed to get through in 
comparative peace, although eyed very sus- 



GIBRALTAR. 19 

piciously by the officials, for women without 
seven trunks, a satchel, shawl-strap, hand-box 
and bundle are unusual in these regions. 

The Pessimist had been very quiet, and her 
sweetly tranquil face with its look of deter- 
mined disapproval had facilitated my frantic 
endeavors very much. The Pessimist is one 
of the women whom every one takes care of, 
even myself. 

They may not like to but they do it just 
the same. It is this habit of allowing her- 
self to be looked after and her plans made 
for her which has endeared her to me as a 
traveling companion. I like making the plans 
myself and my vanity is immensely pleased at 
carrying things on successfully. We went 
smiling up to the frowning gate, where a 
guard awaited us, and I was about to ask him 
for the pass or permit necessary to enter this 
walled town, when the Pessimist grabbed my 
arm. 

"What is that?" she demanded. "Is that 
a — a prince or the governor, or what?" 

I looked quickly in the direction indicated 
by her glance and then smiled. 

"No, Miss Columbia, whose foot has n< 
before been off her native heath,'' I an- 
swered, as I saw the straight, military figure, 
his chest protruding like that of a red Shang- 
hai. He had gay, gold decorations upon his 



20 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

tight jacket, an unmistakable swagger, and a 
pill-box hat perched upon the side of his head 
over his left ear. 

"He 's neither prince nor nabob, but just a 
male animal of the species Tommy Atkins." 

"What 's a Tommyatkins?" she demanded 
with something closely resembling a sniff. 

I regret to say that the Pessimist frequently 
views the valuable information which I impart 
as to be taken with a grain of salt. 

"A Tommy Atkins," very slowly I contin- 
ued, "is the name given to a private in the 
British army. Why? There was once a pri- 
vate who did something. (This is a very un- 
usual circumstance. They generally do noth- 
ing but swagger.) I do n't know what the 
1 something ' was, but it was either very fine 
or very much the reverse. I can make up a 
story if you like. His name was Tommy 
Atkins, and since then all privates have been 
called thus. With the Queen's shilling comes 
a nineteenth century accolade and a sort of 
'I dub thee Tommy Atkins in the name of 
the Queen, a shilling and the British lion.' 

Here I stopped for breath, and we received 
our permit, were forbidden to use our kodak 
inside the walls under pain of fine and impris- 
onment, and were at last inside the gates of 
the great fortress which has for centuries been 
the key of the Mediterranean. 



GIBRALTAR. 21 

The Calpe is a small but very delightful 
hotel built in the pretty Spanish fashion 
round a square marble court with palms and 
flowers, and a fountain splashing coolly in the 
center. 

The Pessimist had intended to rest, but 
when an obliging waiter told us the band 
played in the Alameda from five to six, she 
said she was not tired, at least I said she 
was n't, and off we started. 

Gibraltar has three streets running parallel 
the whole length of the town, intersected 
once or twice by alleys, but oftener ending in 
a cul de sac, and starting on again, seemingly 
without rhyme or reason. The main street, 
Water-port Street, leads from the city gate 
straight through the town and past all the 
public buildings, far too pretty and home-like 
places to be dignified with any such high- 
sounding titles. 

The houses and shops are long, low build- 
ings nearly all with gardens, and the architec- 
ture a strange mixture of dainty Moorish 
lattice, cheerful Spanish patio, and English 
solidity. 

Through the main street the Pessimist and 
I wandered slowly, too absorbed in the sights 
about us for even an attempt at conversation. 
Here passed an English soldier in all the 
bravery of scarlet and gold. There was a 



22 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

dark-browed Spaniard, his cloak thrown about 
him in picturesque folds, and there an Arab 
in flowing burnoose of gray — a veritable Shy- 
lock. 

There are hundreds of Jews in the city 
notwithstanding that the Treaty of Utrecht 
read : 

"No leave shall be given under any pre- 
tence whatever to Jews or Moors to re- 
side or have their dwellings in the town of 
Gibraltar." 

Nevertheless, here they are with their 
greasy faces and unctuous smiles, and in the 
shops are their beautiful wares, all of which 
they sell to you, in consideration of the fact 
that you are the loveliest of your sex, for 
exactly half what the things are marked. 

And although the loveliest of her sex 
knows full well that the villainous old Moors 
are cheats and humbugs, and the wares not 
worth all the pesetas she cheerfully pays, still 
the Maltese lace, Arabian gold embroidery, 
inlaid boxes, and Bolero jackets are so fas- 
cinating and so cheap compared to what 
they are at home that she promptly buys 
them all. 

The Jews gloat over the Americanas, but 
then, let them gloat, for after all, one's only 
regret is that one didn't (or rather eould n 7) 
buy more. The Pessimist and I dragged our 



GIBRALTAR. 23 

reluctant feet past many of these shops, and 
in and out of the maze of wonderful sights 
and strange peoples, and finally, attracted by 
the stirring music, reached the Alameda. 

Up to 1 8 14 Gibraltar was one of the dtrti 
towns in Europe and the most unhealthy. 
Then the English took it in hand, and now it 
is well-drained and neat. 

Once in ten years they have Gibraltar fever 
and the English sometimes find it hard to 
become acclimated, for the summer heat is 
intense, but the spring and fall are charming 
in this latitude, and the months of March and 
April are especially fine. 

The Alameda is a great garden, laid out 
eighty years ago. 

And such a garden ! 

There is but little attempt at arrangement, 
no mere formal landscape gardening, where 
often innocent trees and shrubs are tortured 
into the shapes required by so-called civiliza- 
tion. 

It is a wilderness of flowers, some familiar, 
some unknown, and all blooming in a bril- 
liance and luxuriance hitherto undreamed <>f. 

Here were gay scarlet geranium bushes, 
eight feet high, their great heads fully twelve 
inches in diameter and each separate flower as 
large as a silver dollar. 

Over a wall clambered a heliotrope, 



24 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

heavy lavender flowers in huge clusters scent- 
ing the air, which was fragrant, too, with jas- 
mine, orange flowers, and violets, which 
purpled a carpet for our hesitating feet. 

Pure callas, white and ghostly, were stand- 
ing in stately rows, and over them the flaunt- 
ing roses flirted and nodded at the demurer 
primroses, while the red-bud trees, in full 
bloom, blushed deeply at such flower pranks. 

There are over four hundred native flower- 
ing plants besides all those not indigenous to 
the soil. Neat walks led through this tropic 
fairyland, and there were grottoes and caves 
and rustic seats. 

The Pessimist sat down on one of these, 
under a huge lemon-verbena tree. I regarded 
that tree viciously. What business had it to 
grow tall enough to shade a stranger hos- 
pitably from the glare of the sun? At home, 
I had painstakingly nursed its second cousin 
once removed through a whole winter of its 
discontent, only to have it die when it had 
grown a foot and a half high ! 

The music was playing softly in the distance, 
and I could hear the strains of "God Save the 
Queen," which translated into Yankee means, 
"God Bless Our Native Land." Then the 
band began on "Home, Sweet Home," for 
which I had no longings, and my native land, 
though very desirable as native lands go, did 



GIBRALTAR. 25 

not seem specially so just then. I closed my 
eyes in dreamy peace, soothed by the sights 
and sounds and delicious perfumes. 

"I am the Sleeping Beauty," I remarked 
sotto voce, "and I am never, never going to 
wake up, but I am going to sleep here for 
ever." 

11 May I be allowed to remark that a gnat is 
biting the end of your nose and that you '11 
not be a Beauty to-morrow?" said the Pessi- 
mist in her most dampening tones. "Also 
that I 'm extremely hungry?" 

"Now, that you mention it, so am I," I 
answered cheerfully, and we made our way 
homeward with the alacrity which attends the 
footsteps of those who have satisfactorily seen 
their sights. 

The Pessimist and I spent three days at 
Gibraltar, and although in that time we saw 
everything that was to be seen — for it con- 
tains very few show places compared to other 
cities in Spain — we were by no means ready 
to leave. 

We were guided through the fortifications 
by a delightful English private, to whose 
splendor my companion could not grow accus- 
tomed, and whom she insisted on calling 
"Sir." 

This embarrassed him extremely, for it com- 
pelled him to raise two ringers to his pill-box 



26 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

hat every time she did it, besides making him 
generally uncomfortable. He was n't used to 
it, and John Bull hates anything new. 

It was a hard climb to those fortifications. 
First a narrow street up a steep hill, then 
steps up, up, up; steps cut right into the face 
of the rock, over two hundred of them, and 
then we came to a stand-still at the guard- 
house where our permit, already obtained 
from the governor (for everything in Gibraltar 
is tied with red tape in hard knots), had to be 
ratified, and a guide procured. 

Gibraltar is sometimes called the Hill of 
Caves and there are natural tunnels and caves 
through the rock. The most famous of these 
is St. Michael's cavern. This extends from 
a thousand feet above sea-level to several 
hundred feet below, where the waves can 
be heard dashing overhead and the air is so 
bad that no one has ever dared to penetrate 
farther. 

Besides the natural fortification of its 
almost impregnable position, Gibraltar has 
had everything which human ingenuity could 
devise expended upon it to make it the best 
fortified town in the world. 

Mines and countermines, tunnels and sen- 
tries and signal stations — these are common 
sights. The great tunnels were blasted out 
of solid rock, and by the way, the war pris- 



GIBRALTAR. 27 

oners were forced to work to construct them 
as an illustration of the irony of Fate. 

Within openings at set distances along tin- 
route, huge cannon which it takes twenty 
men to move are placed to gaze serenely upon 
the harbor and the neutral ground stretching 
between Gibraltar and Spain. The rebound 
from firing these cannons is so great that the 
gun carriages are placed upon a sharp incline, 
so that after rebounding they will run back 
into place instead of jumping out of their hole 
and falling over the rock. 

There is a regular honey-comb all through 
the rock with peep-holes for the guns, but 
the exterior is the most innocent gray rock, 
covered with shrubs, aloes, fig-trees and many 
flowers. Visitors are allowed to go only to 
the last of the open galleries, and thither the 
Pessimist and I toiled in the charge of our 
private. Beyond this point no one but a 
British officer is allowed to go, and not he — 
unless in uniform. When we reached the last 
opening we sat down to breathe for a few- 
moments, having neglected that in our last 
hard climb, and the private pointed out the 
different points of interest. 

' 'There, mum, is the market and the custom 
'ouse, and that 's a German man-of-war in 
the 'arbor. Over there where those white 
'ouses begin is Spain. This we 're hon, mum, 



28 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

is Hengland, and that 's Spain. Linea 01 
Linetown 's the name because it 's just on the 
line. That long, low strip between 's the 
neutral ground. It 's neither country's and 
is guarded by both, and neither Henglishman 
nor Spaniard can move a foot off his own 
ground without permission." 

It was a glorious view! 

Rock, town, harbor, bay and straits were 
all before us — the neutral ground stretching 
into sunny Spain, and across the blue water 
the dim outline of the Dark Continent. I was 
oppressed by so much grandeur and the Pessi- 
mist spoke first. 

"When was this given to England?" 

Tommy Atkins smiled as broadly as his 
politeness and his chin-strap permitted, then 
said : 

"It was n t hexactly given, mum. You 
might say, was taken in the year 1704." 

"I know about that, Pessimist," I said 
glibly. I love to talk and had been quiet a 
good while. 

"Gibraltar has belonged to all sorts of peo- 
ple, and th^s.say has never been taken except 
by treachery. Besieged alternately by Chris- 
tians and Moors, it was finally wrested from 
the Moslems in 1462. 

"In 1704 a force of English and Dutch, 
under Sir George Rooke besieged it, and 



GIBRALTAR. 29 

although there was a garrison of only eighty 
men, they killed two hundred and seventy-six 
English before they finally surrendered. 

"Rooke had been fighting for Charles, Arch- 
Duke of Austria, but the British government 
forgot this interesting fact and attached 
Gibraltar to their own Empire, neglecting to 
reward in any way the man who gained it for 
them." 

The private had listened, much edified, and 
as I stopped, too indignant at the thought of 
poor Rooke's unremembered services to talk, 
he remarked sententiously : 

"Hingland requires hevery man to do 'is 
duty, miss! Do you 'appen to know about 
the great siege?" 

"Yes, indeed," I said. "The one which 
lasted from 1779 to 1783. The Spaniards 
made a last effort to wrest the rock from the 
English. The besiegers had an army of forty 
thousand, while the English had only seven 
thousand men. 

They held out against assault and storm 
and starvation for four long years. The his- 
tory of that siege would fill a book, and Gen- 
eral Elliott is one of the heroes of all ages. 
There are few springs in Gibraltar and the 
water supply threatened to fail, for they had 
only rain water to depend upon, and the 
sons were unusually dry; but the splendid fel- 



30 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

lows held out and at last a treaty ended the 
war of which the struggle at Gibraltar was 
only a unit." 

"It was a big fight, mum," said Tommy, 
with some of that pride in his nation which 
makes even the commonest private a bulwark 
of safety to the British Empire. 

"Do you like being here?" I asked him, 
we descended the stairway in the rock. 

"Oh, yes, miss," he answered cheerfully. 
"You see it 's this way, mum. A private 
gets a shillin' a day an' rations, and Gibraltar 
ain 't such a bad billet. Much better than 
Hindia with the dirty niggers." 

"What are 'rations ' and what do you do 
with your shilling a day?" demanded the 
Pessimist. 

"Rations means food, mum; a pound of 
meat and a pound of bread, and some vege- 
tables hevery day. We 'ave to pay four- 
pence a day for mess, mum, where our food 
is cooked, you know, and we buys our own 
pipe-clay and boot-blackin' and it leaves us 
about three-pence a day for tobacco and — 
well, and sweeties, mum," with an irresistible 
twinkle in his eye. 

This way of designating his pot of ale was 
entirely too much for even the Pessimist's 
gravity and she gave our festive Tommy a 
large fee to add to his puny ' 'shillin' a day" 



GIBRALTAR. 31 

as we descended from the fortifications to 
finish our sight-seeing. 

There was not much left. The Cathedral, 
— a poor specimen of imitation Moorish archi- 
tecture, — the old Franciscan convent now used 
as a government house, and the fine hospital 
at Rosia are the main objects of interest. 
We drove across the neutral ground guarded 
on one side by a stern British soldier and on 
the other by a picturesque Spaniard in cloak 
and cocked hat. Linea is a squalid, dirty 
place, full of brown children, dogs and low 
gray houses, once white. 

It is not picturesque, and there is an adver- 
tisement of the Singer sewing machine on the 
first Spanish house. 

We drove back just in time to avoid remain- 
ing outside the gates all night, as no one is 
allowed to enter the sacred walls of Gibraltar 
after sundown. 

We wandered a little about the streets 
teeming with varied human life, and therein 
lies the main charm of Gibraltar; not in picture 
galleries, nor monuments, nor churches, nor 
buildings, but in the strange commingling of old 
world and new, English civilization and Arab 
picturesqueness, and in the fact that it seems 
to unlock the Orient to our wondering ej 

"Well, Pessimist," I said that night; 
"what do you think of Gibraltar?" 



32 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"I think," she replied with the decisiveness 
which marks her fiat, "that the British Lion 
grabbed a pretty big bone and held on to it. 
It is likely to spoil and be very much in his 
way, but it 's too big to bury, and he 
would n't give it back to the Spaniards for 
anything." 



CHAPTER II. 

TANGIER. 




fc£ 



illf aVi* 



'•»• + »*•*»•« TTi 



ROM out the corner of 
my eye I looked at the 
Pessimist and saw that 
she was uncommonly 
low in her mind. We 
were en route for Tan- 
gier, and it rained dis- 
mally, dripping into the small cabin of the 
Ghib al Tarik, which was crowded with passen- 
gers of every variety. We were to reach Tan- 
gier in a few moments, and I saw plainly that 
if I was to rouse the Pessimist from her trance 
of disgust I must be quick about it. Really, I 
could n't altogether blame her, for the passage 
was rough, the cabin stuffy, the decks slippery, 
and our fellow-travelers anything but agree- 
able. We had not been ill, but other people 
had, and altogether we were uncomfortable. 
Even my enthusiasm was dampened. 

I made a hasty visit to the door and return- 
ing, remarked, "We're almost there!" No 
response. "It looks as if it would clear," I 

33 



34 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

hazarded. Still that Sphinx-like expression 
of countenance. "Tangier is a very old 
place." (I tried statistics in desperation.) 
"It was a Roman settlement under the Caesars 
and they called it Tingis. Augustus made it 
a free city, and since then it has been ruled 
by Vandals, Phoenicians and Arabs. In the 
fifteenth century the Portuguese possessed 
themselves of it, and when the Princess Catha- 
rine of Braganza married King Charles II., in 
1662, Tangier was ceded to England as a part 
of her dowry. The British found it undesir- 
able, and in 1684 abandoned it to the Moors. 
It has — " but here my eloquence was inter- 
rupted by a shriek, loud and prolonged, 
which came from the Pessimist at my side. 
She was aroused at last, but not by me. Fol- 
lowing the direction in which her ringer 
pointed I saw on the floor at her feet a meek- 
looking covered basket, from the side of 
which protruded the head of an enormous 
snake. The creature evidently liked the Pes- 
simist's looks for it waved its head, with its 
sly, blinking eyes, back and forward, with 
each movement swaying nearer and nearer the 
unfortunate woman. She shrieked again and 
again and a crowd gathered in an instant, a 
mette of jabbering Spaniards and Arabs, all 
gesticulating and acting as though their one 
desire was to tear everybody into bits- 



TANGIER. 35 

Suddenly the hamper was snatched up by a 
Moor in the national burnous, a long white 
robe, with a hood like a Capuchin's at the 
back, and girded with cord at the waist. He 
spoke to the snake, which, after shooting out 
its tongue at him, drew its head back into the 
basket. It was a tame cobra from which the 
poison had been removed, the Moor explained 
with apologies in excellent French, which all 
Moors speak more or less. 

I accepted his explanations as best I could 
and turned to reassure my poor Pessimist. 

1 'If I had been bitten by that reptile, I sup- 
pose you would have been satisfied," she 
remarked with that stony dignity which 
brings terror to my soul. 

"I wouldn't," I replied hastily. ''I 
would n't have been satisfied at all!" 

"Indeed! Did you wish him to destroy 
my mangled remains?" she demanded, still 
more reproachfully. 

"Mangled fiddlesticks!" I cried, my temper 
getting the better of me. "He could n't bite 
you. He hadn't any — any — biter!" I con- 
cluded lamely, at a loss for a word. 

'You did n't know that, and you laughed!" 
said my friend. 

"I did n't," I hastily disclaimed. "But if 
I laugh at myself and everything which hap- 
pens to me, you ought not to mind my laugh- 



36 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

ing at a snake! That 's doing unto others, 
isn't it? That is the gong for landing and 
there 's a gleam of sunlight. It is really go- 
ing to clear. Come on, Pessimist," and I 
hurried her up on deck. 

As is often the case in small harbors, we 
had to go ashore in boats; and as we stood on 
the gang-plank awaiting our turn to be held 
over the side by one Moor and dropped into 
the arms of another, I whispered to my com- 
panion, " There 's the Barbary ape at last, or 
the Missing Link at least." 

She turned quickly and examined carefully 
the object to which I had drawn her atten- 
tion. It — for the sex seemed uncertain — was 
a Moor, about five feet high and stooping so 
as to appear almost hump-backed. He was 
dressed in a gray burnous like a bath-robe, 
his bare feet were thrust into heelless slippers, 
his head bound with a white turban, his 
brown face was wrinkled and seamed, and his 
small slanting eyes looked out from under a 
pair of shaggy eyebrows. 

To our surprise this object came up and 
spoke to us, saying that he was a guide. As 
he spoke fair English and a good deal of 
French, and showed us a recommendation 
which assured the reader that 4< Abul Islam ' 
was no worse than any of his kind, we en- 
gaged him for our stay in Tangier. 



TANGIER. 37 

The sun had chased away the last vestige of 
cloud, and the city lay before our entranced 
vision. The houses of the town rose from the 
strip of golden sand upon the seashore, in the 
form of an amphitheater guarded by white 
walls and a castle. 

Gibraltar was brilliantly colored in all the 
hues of the spectrum, but Tangier gleamed 
pale-hued between blue sea and bluer sky, 
like a bank of soft sunset clouds. Then, 
there was a sensation of being rushed through 
waves of the sea and more turbulent human 
waves, that dashed and rolled about us in 
wildest confusion. We were hurried up the 
steep landing stairs, through the custom 
house, and into the street, arriving hot and 
breathless, a few moments later, at our hotel, 
another "Calpe," named for its brother across 
the bay, and equally good. 

We ate a marvelous luncheon, a strange 
combination of perfect French cooking and 
Moorish service. 

The table was long and very narrow, and 
all the way down the middle were low glass 
dishes containing different fruits — fresh figs, 
dates, oranges, olives, pomegranates. We 
were waited upon by an Arab in loose Turk- 
ish trousers and a blouse of vivid scarlet with 
gold belt and embroideries. He wore a spot- 
less turban, and was not darker than a Span- 



33 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

iard, with a smooth, olive skin, and melting 
brown eyes set a trifle aslant under perfectly- 
marked brows. Altogether, Hassan was a 
fine specimen, and a more perfectly trained 
servant I never saw. 

Abul Islam, disreputable as he doubtless 
was, knew his duties as guide thoroughly. The 
first of these was to make people see everything 
whether they wanted to or not, and Abul ap- 
peared immediately after lunch and insisted that 
we go to see the prison. He would take no 
denial, so we meekly followed him through the 
streets. Those streets! Picture to yourself the 
bed of a mountain brook with the water run- 
ning in a steady stream down the middle and in 
unexpected little trickles everywhere else. This 
was the main street (there is but one), which 
runs from Bab-al-Marsa (the Gate of the 
Port), to Bab-al-Sok (the Gate of the Market 
Place). The by-ways and alleys are a mass 
of black mud which comes to the ankles 
always and frequently over the shoe-tops. 

Several times the Pessimist opened her 
mouth to object, but Abul strode sternly on in 
front, refusing to listen to any remonstrances. 
She was a sight as she picked her way through 
that horrid slime and filth, her gown held up 
in both hands, her face a study. 

I laughed till I nearly sat down in a mud- 



TANGIER. 39 

puddle, when it suddenly dawned upon me 

that I probably looked the same. 

" O, wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursel's as ithers see us," 

I murmured as I caught a smile on the face of 
a handsome Englishman as he passed me. 
Pessimist, you are avenged!" 

The prison is unspeakable. My acquaint- 
ance with prisons is not extensive, but if my 
opinion were asked I should say that the one 
in Tangier is the worst in the world. 

If there are worse I do n't wish to see nor 
hear of them. At the entrance court sat the 
jailer, smoking a long pipe filled with Kief, a 
sort of opium, one whiff of which will send a 
European to sleep. He watched us furtively. 
Then we came to a hole in the wall, heavily 
grated with iron, and at this appeared a face. 
Poor wretch ! 

Had he ever known happiness? If he had, 
it was long since ground out of him, for the 
shriveled parchment of his skin was like a 
sombre mask of misery. What had he done? 
Oh, nothing probably, except have an enemy 
who denounced him to the Pasha as having a 
few duros which the Pasha thought he could 
extort from him in ransom. He is there in 
that dark, ill-smelling, cramped room, with 
dozens of other unfortunates exactly like him, 



4° WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

writhing in chains and groaning with sickness 
and misery, until friends can collect money 
enough for ransom, or the charity of strangers 
throws a few silver coins in his way. 

It was hard to be optimistic over such a 
scene as this, and harder still when Abul 
waved his hand toward an open court and 
said, "Ze hospital!" I tried very hard to see 
it, having visions of neat buildings rilled with 
spotless white beds and all the comforts our 
blessed nineteenth century affords to the 
sick. 

Upon further inquiry Abul informed us that 
the Sultan disapproved of sick people, and 
the aged, and liked to have them killed, but 
the Pasha was very kind and allowed them to 
lie in that open court all day. Kind Pasha! 

I could stand it no longer. 

' 'For pity's sake, take me to some more 
cheerful place!" I cried at last, as the Pes- 
simist turned a grieved countenance toward 
me, and I knew she was on the point of say- 
ing, "I told you so!" 

Abul understood and quickly guided us to 
El Sok, the market. It was a confused mass of 
Arabs, negroes, Moors, Spaniards, and non- 
descripts. 

"This is cheerful," I cried delightedly. 

"Look at that camel. He certainly looks 
like the ship of the desert with all sails set, as 



TANGIER. I i 

he comes steering down the street, scattering 
everything before him. 

Donkeys, pigs, sheep, ducks, vegetabl . 
fruits — did you ever see such a mixtur 

There, see that leather. I read somewhere 
that there are tanneries here, as one would 
expect in Morocco. What quaint pottery ! 

What wonderful mats ! 

"What is that?" I asked of Abul. 

"Koos," he said, taking up some stuff 
which looked like bran. 

"We use it to cook, like curry," he added. 

"And this is soap," showing us a ma- 
which resembled liquid dates. 

"Are those women?" demanded the Pessi- 
mist. 

"Yes, Sefiora," said Abul. "They always 
wear the Jiaik." 

"Are they as beautiful as their eyes?" I 
asked looking at the slender forms in their 
white draperies, held so as to cover all the 
face but the eyes. 

"Oh, some of them," said Abul. "Would 
you like to see some?" 

"Yes, indeed," we both exclaimed. 

"I will take you to a harem," he said, and 
started proudly away. We held our breath, 
scarcely daring to breathe lest we dispel our 
good fortune. 

"A real harem!" I whispered. "P< 



42 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

mist, are we in the Arabian Nights?" but she 
gave no answer, for Abul stopped abruptly at 
a low, white door in a wall and knocked 
loudly. 

The door swung back and a brief parley 
ensued, and then he motioned us to enter. 
We did so, and found ourselves in a long, low 
hall with tiled floor, and doorways opening on 
each side. 

We seemed to be alone, when a voice said 
softly, in French : 

"Here, please," and we saw a tiny slave 
girl, who beckoned us to follow her through 
one of the curtained doorways. We followed 
with a pleasurable excitement not unmixed 
with fear, and entered a cool marble patio with 
a fountain in the center, ferns and flowers and 
the twitter of birds mingling with the splash 
of the water. 

Here we waited a moment while the noise- 
less slave glided away to call her mistress. 
"Do you like it, Pessimist?" I asked. 

"Ye-es," she said slowly and dubiously. 
Then she edged up to me and whispered, 

"Do you think we '11 get out?" 

"Out?" I exclaimed. "What on earth do 
you mean?" 

"Are we quite safe? Would there be any 
danger of — " she hesitated. 

"Of the master of the house wanting any 



TANGIER. } j 

more wives?" I queried. "My dear P< 
mist, there are a great many women in Tan- 
gier. Still, if he should happen to be here it 
might be awkward. You know they prefer 
them plump. Up in Tetuan slaves are made 
to stand all day and throw bread pellets into 
the favorites' mouths so they '11 grow stout. 
Two hundred is a nice weight there, although 
a hundred and fifty will do." 

The Pessimist looked uncomfortable, for her 
plump figure was one of her trials. Just then 
the little slave came back with the chief wife, 
who greeted us pleasantly. She was a tall. 
handsome creature, dressed in a marvelous 
salmon silk robe, covered with gold-em- 
broidery. In her black hair were numbers of 
gold bangles. 

There were fifteen wives altogether, some- 
were embroidering, some talking in whisp 
and one, the youngest of all, a girl about fif- 
teen, stood a little apart, glancing shyly at us. 

She was a lovely creature, shy and modest- 
looking, and stood there, clad in a pale blue 
silk robe with haik half drawn about her face. 
and one bare foot with nails dyed reel, slip- 
ping nervously in and out of her pink san- 
dal. 

The house was built around the patio; on 
one side were the cooking and eating rooms. 
In one of these a brass kettle was simmering 



44 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

over blazing charcoal, and the fragrance of 
rich coffee filled the rooms. 

Beyond was a long chamber with low 
couches at intervals along the walls, and at the 
end a huge couch piled with pillows, draped 
in gorgeous colors. But, alas for the unity 
of the picturesque! It was curtained off with 
cheap, imitation lace curtains from Notting- 
ham. 

This was the bedroom and next it a smaller 
one filled with scarfs and haiks and materials 
for embroidery — the great occupation of the 
Oriental. 

The chief wife gave us a thick liquid, called 
coffee, but more like a black, sweetened syrup, 
and she bade us cordially " Mar aba bickoum ' 
(welcome). The pretty little wife insisted on 
kissing our hands. We smiled liberally upon 
all who could not talk French, gave the pa- 
tient slave a fee, and our visit to the harem was 
at an end. 

The Pessimist gave a huge sigh of relief as 
we heard the heavy door clang behind us, and 
we saw Abul serenely waiting in the mud. 

"I 'm glad we 're out of it," she remarked. 
"It was very interesting, but I was scan- 
dalized to see that they looked happy. Think 
of being married like that!" 

"But they 're so little married." I said, flip- 
pantly. "You must remember that each has 



TANGIER. .j 5 

only one-fifteenth of a husband. If there are 
many more things in Tangier as interestin 
the harem, I shall stay two weeks instead of 
two days !" 

Fortunately for me. in view of this decision, 
there is not a great deal which must be seen, 
and the charm of the place lies in the fact 
that one can wander at will, guide-bookl 
yet always seeing something interesting. 

There are twenty thousand people in Tan- 
gier, only four thousand of whom are Kuro- 
peans, and the street scenes present a human 
kaleidoscope. The houses, which line the 
streets close together and are all painted white 
and pale colors, are low, flat-roofed and win- 
dowless. 

One can stand in the middle of the street 
and almost touch the doors on each side with 
both hands. 

There are few shops visible, for nearly all the 
buying and selling is done in the market- 
places and the curio shops are behind walls, 
up alleys, and in various impossible pla< 

The Pessimist and I visited a cafe under the 
guidance of Abul, and found it apparently 
harmless. It was a long, low room, with 
pillars painted in gay colors, and in the middle 
sat the musicians playing extraordinarily in- 
harmonious harmonies. 

There were guitars, mandolins, banjos, an 



46 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

accordion and several rhcbugs, curious instru- 
ments between violin and guitar. The musi- 
cians sang a weird accompaniment, making 
horrible faces, especially one gigantic negro, 
coal black, who showed every gleaming ivory 
tooth in his exertions to sing. 

Groups of men sat about on the floor, 
smoking kief pipes, playing cards and drink- 
ing tea and coffee out of tiny glasses. 

I started to make a little sketch ; but a mur- 
mur arose, and Abul said quickly. 

"Tear up that paper!" 

This I did at once, and he hurried us away, 
past the pile of shoes at the door (for all the 
natives are compelled to take off their shoes 
when entering), down the steep steps into the 
open street. 

Then he explained that the Mohammedans 
resent bitterly any attempt at sketching. It 
was forbidden by the Prophet to draw any 
likeness of anything, according to a literal in- 
terpretation of the Holy Scriptures. 

Moreover, an Arab thinks that a picture 
must have a soul, and if he allows his likeness 
to be made, at the day of judgment there will 
be no soul for him, since his own will have 
gone into the portrait. 

The sun deigned to shine during the rest of 
our visit to Tangier; the mud in the streets 
dried up ; the city took upon itself an air of 



TANGIER. 47 

pleasant life and activity, and even the Pes- 
simist withdrew the anathemas she had 
breathed. She developed a marked admira- 
tion for the nose of the modern Arab, per- 
haps due to the fact that her own is an 
engaging pug. . 

These noses are unusual, and I have never 
seen such a perfect shape, — neither Aquiline 
nor Grecian, but a medium between the two; 
and the delicate curve of the nostrils, which 
dilate with every emotion, is statuesque. 
The Arabs are handsome fellows, with 
straight, lithe forms, graceful in every curve, 
sleek, clear skins of a rich olive, eyes full of a 
dreamy tranquillity, and crisp black hair. 
Their faces wear a pensive expression and for 
the most part an enduring agreement with the 
ways of Providence, very different from our 
Western unrest. This comes in part from 
their natural indolence, but largely from their 
firm belief in Fate. 

Our last night in Tangier was ideal. We 
had seen everything, been everywhere, even 
to taking a long donkey ride among the neigh- 
boring villages, scattered like dots upon the 
hill-sides. 

The Pessimist looked irresistible upon her 
donkey. Her dignity was painful, for it in- 
duced her to try to sit upright and ride grace- 
fully. I have conquered the proper way of 



48 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

riding a donkey, and do it to perfection. The 
science of it lies in allowing yourself to wob- 
ble as much as possible; not to sit up, not to 
be dignified, not to mind falling off over his 
ears or tail, as the case may be. In short, 
have a complete disregard for appearances, and 
so shalt thou fare better and have fewer 
bruises than thy more dignified neighbor. 

The Pessimist suffered, and retired early, 
but it was my last night on the Dark Conti- 
nent and I was determined to make the most 
of it. 

Warmly clad, for the air crept in a little 
chilly from the sea, I lingered on the iron- 
latticed balcony of my room, which almost 
overhung the city's wall. 

Far to the right, " le sable etait comme une 
mer sans limites," stretching away to the grim 
desert. The sea rolled on in restless fervor, 
and I could hear its waves lap the cool strand, 
and see the outline of the citadel against the 
sky. 

As the moon rose high in the air it sent a 
shimmering path of light across the water. 

From the white towers of the citadel the 
houses, seeming like ghosts of dwellings in the 
still night, sloped down to the stern walls 
which guard the city. 

The towers of the three tall mosques, in the 
daylight such strange and wonderful hues of 



TANGIER. 49 

greenish, purplish, bluish gray, now were 
dark and eerie, and beside them rose the date- 
palm trees, their huge serrated leaves clearly 
outlined in the brilliant moonlight. All was 
silent, still as the night indeed, and gazing 
upon this perfect scene my soul was filled 
with a sense of its beauty and with memories 
of long ago. As I dreamed of the days of 
good Haroun-al-Raschid, suddenly in the 
street beneath my lattice there was a sound of 
steps, the monotonous beating of a drum, the 
call to prayer, for it was the month Ramadan, 
and all good Mohammedan? rise and pray at 
midnight. 

4 'God is Great! God is Great! There is 
no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his 
Prophet !" 

This was the cry, and it broke upon the 
night air with a sharpness which brought to 
mind fearful recollections of that creed which 
has been disseminated by blood and warfare. 

Here it was, on this very coast, now so 
tranquil in the moonlight, that the Moham- 
medan conqueror, having laid waste and de- 
vastated all in his path and converted at the 
point of the sword all whom he did not kill, 
with his sword dripping with blood, waded 
into the sea and swore that the sea should be 
the only boundary of the religion of Mo- 
hammed. 



50 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

As I mused, lost in thought, a voice from 
the interior of the room remarked : 

" Would you mind telling me what you are 
doing?" and starting guiltily I beheld the 
Pessimist in all the glory of crimping pins. 

"I 'm — well I 'm looking at the moon," I 
said, lamely. 

It always puzzles me to give any legitimate 
excuse for sentimentality to the Pessimist. 

''Is there anything peculiar about the 
moon?" she asked, sardonically. 

"It 's the only African moon I ever saw," 
I replied. 

"Hum!" she said, contemptuously. 

"It 's so nice out here," I added. "Won't 
you come and see?" 

"Thank you. I fail to see any difference 
between an African moon and any other kind. 
There is also such a thing as African fever and 
plain American influenza, and you '11 get one 
or the other if you stay out there any longer 
— not to mention the fact of how cross you '11 
be at the breakfast table!" she remarked. 

"Good-night, Pessimist," I said, humbly. 

There are times when pessimistic common 
sense is very trying. 



CHAPTER III. 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITY. 




HE approach to Cadiz 
from the sea is very beau- 
tiful, especially, if like 
the Pessimist and myself, 
you sail from Tangier on 
a clear day with the 
March sun shining in 
Southern brilliance. We had left the African 
coast, picturesque and gray in the morning 
light, and had caught just a glimpse of Tarifa, 
the most Moorish town in Spain. It was named 
from Tarif Ben-Malik, the first Berber Sheik 
who came to Spain, and the modern word tariff 
is said to be taken from the fact that the Moors 
made every one who passed pay a tax at 
Tarifa. It was once a Roman colony, called 
Julia Traducta (because the Romans peopled 
it with Spanish women stolen like the Sa- 
bincs), and under the gray walls of the town 
the son of Alfonso Perez de Guzman, ancestor 
of the Empress Eugenie, was put to death 
by the Moors, in the very sight of his father, 

5 1 



5- WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

in order to induce him to yield the city : 
save his child's life. 

"Better honor without a son, than a son 
with dishonor." said the splendid old Don 
(called El Bueno. or the Good ), as he tossed the 
Moors the very dagger with which to kill his son, 
and the Moors were forced to retire and Tarifa 
was saved. pe Trafalgar, which means 

promontory* of the cave, and which teems with 
memories of Nelson, came next, and this is 

^ed the "Waterloo of the Sea." As every 
one knows, here it was that in 1805, Xelson died 
in all the triumph of his wonderful victory. 
Gravina. the Spanish admiral, having received 
a mortal wound in the same engagement, said 
as he lay dying, "I go to join Xelson, the 
greatest man the world fa r produced." 

Poor Xelson! So great, and yet so weak! 

After Trafalgar came the Isle of Leon and 
lovely glimpses of the coast, wooded and 
sloping gently to the sea. Cadiz lies upon a 
peninsula stretching far into the sea, and 
seems like a snow-white cloud on the horizon, 
for sea and sky are shades of deep lapis-lazuli 
blue, while the city is quite white. 

To those accustomed to smoke -begrimed 
towns. Cadiz is a revelation, and De Amicis 
says of it. "I can only ibe it by writing 

the word 'white ' a thousand times with a 
white pencil on blue paper 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITY. 53 

"Pessimist, my dear," I remarked, as we 
looked upon the harbor and quays, and drove 
through the white gateway, up a white street, 
to a white hotel, the Fonda de America, "I 
don't think I should like being a servant in 
Cadiz. The houses are whitewashed inside 
and out every year, and a servant who cannot 
whitewash need not apply for a situation here. 
The Spaniards call it l tazita dc plata ' or little 
silver cup. 

"Is it not beautiful and dazzling?" 

"Very dazzling. I should like a pair of 
blue glasses. My eyes are nearly put out 
with the glare," said the Pessimist. 

"It 's rose-colored, and not blue glasses you 
need. You 're blue enough now," I said. 

"Did you know Cadiz was eleven hundred 
years old, and Caesar made it a free city with 
five hundred Roman cquitcs, of which number 
only Rome and Padua could boast? In those 
days it was the market of the world, a wilder- 
ness of marble palaces, amphitheaters and 
aqueducts, teeming with shipping; spoken 
of by Cajsar; sung of by the Roman poets 
and praised by Juvenal as the 'City of Venus,' 
with its improbce GaditancE, or ballet girls, 
whose wonderful grace of movement turned 
the heads of all the Roman youths, who came 
to Cadiz in stately galleys o'er the Mediter- 
ranean or by that Via Lata which stretched 



54 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPA IX. 

from the white city by the sea, to the imperial 
one where the yellow Tiber sweeps along." 

"What is that over the door-way of that 
large building?" asked my companion. 
"Those are the arms of Cadiz, — Hercules with 
his lions and the pillars, and the motto, nc plus 
ultra. How strange to feel that this was the 
limit of the world, and that it was the Tarshish 
of the Bible!" 

"It does not look as old as that. It 's the 
newest thing we 've seen," grumbled the Pes- 
simist. 

"It 's no use pining for real antiquity 
in Cadiz," I answered, "for the old Roman re- 
mains were long since destroyed by the Goths; 
theirs by the Arabs; the town was rebuilt 
by Don Alfonso the Learned, in 1262 ; burned 
by the English in the sixteenth century; bom- 
barded in the eighteenth ; ravaged by 'the pesti- 
lence that walketh in darkness;' desolated by 
the keen Levanter and the fierce Sirocco, and 
the center of the Spanish resistance during the 
Peninsular war. 

"Wars and rumors of wars have left little of 
old Cadiz, the Iberian region sung by Homer. 
Rather we have flowers, palms, white, fresh 
streets, and houses neat and clean. 

"Cadiz has whitewashed the woes of cen- 
turies and left no trace. It 's a regular 
whited sepulchre !" 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITY. 55 

"It strikes me," said the Pessimist dryly, 
"that the proverb about people who live in 
glass houses must have originated here. Look 
at those mansions on the right. They have 
three tiers of balconies inclosed in glass, and 
look like glass houses." 

"The houses are high and straight and 
there are no patios. It does n't seem like 
Spain," I answered, "but we 've only a little 
to see before we hurry on to 'fair Sevilla/ 
where one may find Spain in its element, if 
what the guide-books say is true." 

The first thing we went to see in Cadiz was 
the old cathedral, called the Palladian. It was 
built in the thirteenth century and handsome 
chapels were added in the fifteenth and six- 
teenth, but it was nearly all destroyed by fire 
when Lord Essex sacked the city in the reign 
of Queen Elizabeth. The rebuilding was not a 
success from an architectural point of view, 
for the edifice is low, and as an English writer 
expresses it, "in the Moresque south it screams 
like a harsh note of music." 

From the dreary old church the Pessimist and 
I wandered to the convent, Los Capuchinos. 
Over the high altar of the little church is 
Murillo's last painting. We passed before it 
in silence. The light was dim, yet a shaft of sun- 
shine lighted up the faces in the wonderful paint- 
ing, "The Mystic Marriage of St. Catherine." 



56 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"There she kneels, Pessimist," I said, "in 
her robes of velvet and gold, for Catherine 
was nobly born and of an old Sienna family. 
The sword at her feet signifies the way she 
died, for she was beheaded, and on her face is 
the earnest purpose of her noble soul to lead 
the life of purity and zeal for our Lord, of 
which the ring that He extends is the symbol. 
Murillo must have loved this picture, for he 
has put much of his very best work into it." 

"What are the cherubs to represent?" 
asked the Pessimist. 

"One has the martyr's crown, the other the 
celestial wreath. Poor Murillo! How sad for 
him to lose himself in his work so completely 
that he stepped backward, fell from the scaf- 
folding, and died soon afterwards, leaving this 
to Meneses Osorio to finish." 

"Such is life," said the Pessimist, gloom- 
ily. "Where is the St. Francis?" 

"There at that side altar. Is not the col- 
oring of the head perfect? The hands seem 
to stand out, and the expression of St. Fran- 
cis as he receives the stigmata is marvelous. 
What a wonderful study the mind and heart 
of a painter must be! It always seems hard 
to believe that men who could paint such 
perfect things, with such deep religious sen- 
timent in every stroke of the brush, could be 
anything but saints themselves." 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITT. 57 

"Well, I do n't think they were saints, 
judging from Raphael and his posing La 
Fornarina for so many Madonnas. There 
was n't much religious sentiment in that. 
Are we going to stay here all day?" asked the 
Pessimist. 

"No, certainly not. We 're going to climb 
to the very top of the Torre de la Vizia and 
have the view of the city, and we shall need 
all our breath for it, so a truce to conversa- 
tion. 

We were repaid for the climb and for hold- 
ing our tongues so long too, for the view we 
had was superb and novel. Not content with 
whitewashing streets and walls and houses, 
regarding a pencil scratch as an abomination 
and a fly-speck as a monstrosity, it seemed as 
if the people of Cadiz even whitewashed their 
roofs. 

It is impossible to imagine anything more 
curious than the white town lying on the 
bosom of the sea and from above looking just 
the same as from below. The houses are flat 
on top, and the roofs covered with terraces and 
gardens surrounded with whitewashed walls, 
and these in turn surmounted by white cupo- 
las or sentry boxes. At the time of a great 
eclipse of the sun, Dc Amicis says, the popu- 
lation of the whole city betook itself to the 
roof to watch the phenomenon, and the white 



58 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

city was turned into a revolving kaleidoscope 
of color with waving fans and gay shawls and 
gowns brightening up the whiteness. 

The Pessimist did not like Cadiz. She sang 
a little tune, plaintive and sad, the words of 
which consisted largely of references to 
" glare" and wonders which route we were to 
take in leaving. However, I turned a deaf 
ear, for while I was forced to admit the glare I 
meant to see all there was to be seen, if possible. 

"We are going now," I said firmly, "to 
see the Casa de Misericordia." 

There is nothing which impresses the Pessi- 
mist more, when she is obstreperous, than to 
hear very large words in a language which she 
does not understand. 

"The Casa de Misericordia," I went on 
glibly, "is the hospital and poor-house, and it 
holds one thousand persons. There it is, with 
that fine marble portico. There are no finer 
hospitals in the world than here at Cadiz. 
Nearly all are in charge of the sisters, and 
some of the heroism of these simple souls in 
times of pestilence has been marvelous." 

"Humph!" sniffed the Pessimist, "You 
may poke into all the pestilential places and 
admire all the fine pestilential deeds you want 
to, but as for me, I am perfectly contented 
with something more pleasing. I 'm going to 
find a garden and wait there for you." 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITT. 59 

"Oh, very well! There is the Paseo de las 
Delicias, and behind it is the Jardin Botanico. 
We will go there," I said, for when the Pessi- 
mist does rebel against my authority, there's 
nothing for me to do but yield. So we went 
to the famous garden and saw the queer 
plants. Here was the Dragon Tree of India 
(Draccena Draco) five hundred years old, its 
limbs twisted and gnarled into fantastic shapes 
like some uncanny demoniacal creature, and 
there was a phalanx of cacti and tropical 
plants. 

The Pessimist liked the garden and relented 
a little, but she would not let me hunt up the 
house of Jose de Cadahalso, a poet, born in 
Cadiz, in 1 741 , and killed at Gibraltar, in 
1782, and she utterly scorned the idea of the 
picture gallery, and Gallio-like, she "cared for 
none of those things." Although I did not 
like giving up, I confess that I preferred ram- 
bling down to the old fish-market, where the 
gay fisherman flourished around with a dagger 
in his glaring waist-band, his head tied up in a 
gaudy cotton cloth. 

Altogether Cadiz is a queer little city and 
there arc some pleasant sights, but a day is long 
enough to stay there. Its great beauty lies in 
its situation, as it seems to float like Venice, 
between sea and sky; and in the memories of 
ancient times with which it throngs the mind. 



60 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

There are several routes to Seville, and my 
friend and I had a vigorous discussion as to 
which one we should follow. 

"Shall we go by Jerez, where the fine 
sherry comes from ?" I asked. "That is the 
frontier keep of Andalucia, and so was called 
Jerez de la Frontera by Alfonso the Learned." 

"What is there to see at Jerez?" asked the 
Pessimist, intent as ever upon getting the 
worth of her money." 

"I do n't know," I said vaguely, searching 
my cranium for guide-book lore. "We might 
run up to Utrera where the old Moorish sys- 
tem of irrigating still exists. The whole 
country there is a luxuriant wilderness of 
tropical vegetation, and explains why wise old 
Peter the Cruel wanted to ally himself to 
Mussulmans and Jews, since they understood 
irrigating the country. 

Catherine of Aragon brought Jerez sherry 
to England when she married Prince Arthur, 
brother of Henry VIII. The sherry is de- 
licious, and there are the finest wine-cellars in 
the world — regular palaces of Bacchus, some 
of them containing fifteen thousand barrels. 

The whole process, from pressing the grape 
to bottling for exportation, may be seen in 
these bodegas. 

"Bodegas/" said the Pessimist, "I call them 
breweries, and I can see breweries at home." 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD CITY. 6 1 

"Then we '11 take the other route and go to 
Seville by the Guadalquivir. The boats arc 
good, passage lasts only eight hours and costs 
three dollars," I replied. 

To this my friend agreed, and we started in 
the morning, sailing off from the white town, 
which looked unspeakably lovely in the early 
morning sunlight. 

When the sun was well up, we sat on deck 

enjoying the gentle motion, for the sea was 

tranquillity itself; and passing close by the 

mouth of the Guadalete we saw fertile fields and 

valleys and the river flowing peacefully to 

the sea. Once it ran red with blood, for it 

was near here that the great battle was fought 

that gave the Moslems their hold on Spain. 

" Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and knight in mailed splendors drest, 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest, 
Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
pressed." 

All the trouble came from a woman, for Don 

Roderick saw Florinda the Beautiful, and 

stole her away from her father Count Julian. 

In revenge the latter went over to the Moslems, 

and came with Tank the One-Eyed, and 

Muza-bcn-Xozier, a Berber sheik, to invade 

Andalucia and despoil the Goths. On the 

gt\at battlefield Taric cried to his soldiers, 

"Ye are conquerors of Africa, O followers 



62 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

of Mohammed; back ye cannot go! The sea 
lies at your backs; the waves of your enemies 
— Christian dogs — are lashing your faces. 
Follow me," and he led them valiantly 
against the Gothic host. Two days the war- 
fare endured, and when the sun shone on the 
third, it rose over a bloody field, with stained 
banners and heaps of slain, and Roderick the 
Goth, his kingly head laid low in the dust, 
had felt the vengeance of Count Julian. ''All 
the Goth's silks and riches did not prevent 
his being cut off," says Sancho Panza, and 
thus died Roderigo, last of the Gothic kings 
of Spain. 

Sailing along at the rate of ten miles an 
hour, we passed Rota, famous for its Tintilla 
wine, and Bonanza, a Frenchy port, making 
one wonder about the origin of the modern 
slang, " striking a bonanza." The river 
winds in and out, and half way between Cadiz 
and Seville branches off so as to form two isl- 
ands, Isla Major, forty kilometers long and 
Isla Minor, seventeen kilometers. 

The water was remarkably limpid, the re- 
flections wonderfully distinct. In the distance 
were hills crowned with cypress trees and 
clothed in flowers, peasants in gay costumes, 
fields of grain and a luxuriant vegetation. 

As the setting sun gilded the river into 
glory and lighted up the sky with rainbow 



CADIZ, THE CLOUD C/TT. 63 

hues, a sudden turn of the boat gave us our 
first glimpse of Seville, and we almost held our 
breaths. 

There was a huge, dark pile which we 
recognized as the cathedral, built on the site 
of an old temple of Venus, once a Gothic 
church, then a mosque, and after many vicis- 
situdes of fire and sack, made a Christian 
cathedral by St. Ferdinand. 

Little of this remains, save the Giralda, and 
the present edifice dates from 1402. 

It is a magnificent specimen of the style of 
the best Gothic period of Spain, and looms 
up above everything in a grandeur which 
made me exclaim to the Pessimist: "The 
cathedral of Seville! oh, we must see more 
of it ! Think of all the things which have 
happened here, — the pageants of Holy Week 
and all the splendid celebrations of Ferdinand 
and Isabella. There is the Giralda, all 
that is left of the mosque of Abu Jusuf 
Jacub, whence the Muezzin's call to prayer 
sounded over Moorish Sevilla. I can even see 
1 la girardilla,' the bronze figure of faith, on 
the top." 

"What is that, close by the water's edge?" 
asked my friend, who, in the marvelous beauty 
of the scene, forgot even her pessimism. 

"Latorredel Oro," or golden tower. It Mas 
named from its peculiar orange coloring; and 



64 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

here Columbus' treasures were kept when he 
brought them from the New World. Oh. is 
it not perfect? See those gypsies and mule- 
teers! Do you remember in Childe Harold? 

" How carols now the lusty muleteer! 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the wav, 
And as he speeds he chants Viva el Re 

Proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued, Se- 
ville at last ! Seville the fair, the city of fans 
and guitars and dances and gayety and love 
and romance and song, Seville the Marvel! 



CHAPTER IV. 



LA MARAVILLA. 




UIEN no ha vista Sevilla 
No ha vista maravilla" 
I quoted to my friend 
the morning after our 
arrival in Seville. "We 
are to see a marvel, Pes- 
simist. Behold! The first 
glimpses! Our first day in Seville!" I said 
dramatically, throwing open our closed lattice, 
expecting to gaze forth upon a scene of won- 
der and delight. Alas! nothing was to be 
seen save the ghosts of some houses opposite 
peering at us vaguely through heavy mist, 
and as I searched the sky for some signs of 
fair weather, down came a quick patter of rain, 
and I withdrew hastily. 

"It's going to rain every minute of the 
time we 're here in your Marvel," said my 
companion, in a thoroughly pessimistic mood. 
"I am not going to get up or go anywhere to- 
day," and she turned over and went to sleep. 
I dressed dejectedly, for how could I go 

65 



66 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

about alone and I knew nothing would move 
the Pessimist. 

However, fortune favors the brave. At 
breakfast I made the acquaintance of an En- 
glish curate, with a reliable cough, and Mrs. 
Curate spending the winter in Seville, and 
delighted to show their favorite haunts to a 
stranger. We started out with galoshes and 
umbrellas and mackintoshes, and attacked the 
picture gallery first and foremost. I love fine 
pictures, and I particularly dote on Murillo. 
There is something so appalling about a list 
of famous pictures in a guide-book that I 
always try to see them first, leaving the rest 
of the city till later. After one has been to 
the gallery and walked through its miles of 
madonnas and saints, frying or broiling as the 
case may be, one knows exactly what one 
wishes to go back to see. 

The picture gallery is on the Calle de las 
Armas, close to the Puerta Real, and was 
formerly the Convent de la Merced, founded 
by St. Ferdinand, in 1249, an ^ here one fairly 
feasts upon Murillos, Zubarans, Valdes, and 
many others. The finest Murillos, those to 
which I returned time and again, never weary- 
ing of their perfection of coloring and expres- 
sion, were the "St. Thomas of Villanueva giv- 
ing Alms," the "Immaculate Conception," 
"St. Anthony of Padua," and the "St. Felix 



"LA MARAVILLA." 67 

of Cantalicio." Of the first of these, Sir Ed- 
win Head, a great English critic, has said, 
"In the saint's face and figure there is a won- 
derful union of dignity and humility, whilst 
the beggars in the front are admirable for 
truth and expression, as for instance, the boy 
on the left showing to his mother the money 
he had received." 

The coloring is warm and rich, and the 
whole picture is in Murillo's best style, and 
many think there is only one of his superior 
to it, the "St. Elizabeth," in the Madrid 
gal lei')'. 

The "Immaculate Conception," "Dc la 
luna" as it is called, is one of his largest and 
finest, similar to the one in the cathedral and 
the one at the Louvre in Paris. 

But the "St. Anthony " is the one which 
appealed to me the most, and I looked upon 
it in rapt awe. How the pure saint loved our 
Lord! It shows in every line of his figure, 
and the dignity and sweetness of the child- 
God are indeed a triumph of art. 

'This picture," I said to myself, "requires 
unlimited study;" and during my stay in Se- 
ville, scarcely a day passed in which I did not 
find in it new beauties. 

After Murillo every one seems tame, and 
yet when I saw Zubaran's "St. Thomas 
Aquinas," I almost held my breath; for this 



6S WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

great master has much of the coloring of 
Titian, the drawing of Corregio and the power 
of Raphael. Carried away by Soult. the "St. 
Thomas " was recovered by Wellington after 
Waterloo, and returned to Spain, and this 
picture alone has been said to place the artist 
second only to Murillo. St. Thomas is repre- 
sented with the four doctors of the church, 
Ambrose, Augustin. Jerome and Gregory. 
Above in the clouds are Christ and the 
Blessed Virgin with Saints Paul and Dominic, 
while Charles the Fifth and Archbishop Deza 
(for whom the painting was done, in 162 ' : . 
kneel below. 

"It was an odd way the painters had of 
putting in their patrons along with saints and 
angels, and no doubt it largely contributed 
toward getting them other orders," said my 
English friends, as they bore me away in tri- 
umph to the river-side, telling me charming 
stories of the streets through which we passed. 

"There, in that house close to the San 
Leandro lived Don Juan Tenorio," said the 
coughing curate. "He was the Don Gio- 
vanni of Mozart, and Byron's Don Juan. 
Do n't you recall? — 

' In Seville was he born, — a pleasant city, 
Famous for oranges and women, — he 

Who has not seen it will be much to pity:' 
So says the proverb, and I quite agree. 



"LA MARAVILLAr 69 

Of all the Spanish towns none is more pretty; 

Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see. 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream and called the Guadalquivir.' 

"This youth, so wicked as to have his name 
become a synonym for vice, was a Sevillian of 
noble family, living in the 14th century. He 
had adventures enough to fill volumes; and the 
story of his doings was formulated, in 1625, 
by Gabriel Tellez, and translated into several 
languages. Upon this are founded Moliere's 
"Festin de Pierre," Shadwell's "The Liber- 
tine," Dumas' "Don Juan de Maflara," and 
a famous play by Senor Zorilla, late poet- 
laureate of Spain." 

"So he lived here, gay Don Juan!" I said, 
looking at the small house with its iron- 
barred attic windows and Saracenic arches. 
It was so quiet in the lonely street that I 
found it difficult to picture Zerlina and 
Leporello and Dona Elvira frisking about 
there. Legends say that Don Juan died 
repentant, and I chose to believe that Satan 
did not get him upon his excursion into the 
tomb where the gay, reckless fellow went after 
the body of his sweetheart, Dona Ines. Se- 
villians say that he was warned by a vision of 
himself in an open grave, and made up with 
Dona Elvira, his unpleasant but very holy 
wife, and died in the odor of sanctity." 



7© TH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

"You must not confuse him with the Sefior 
ara who founded the great hospital," said 
the curate. 

"He was quite a different person and lived 
many years later. Here is 'La Caridad ' 
which he founded. See the inscription over 
the door: 

" 'Santa Caridad. 

'" 'Dornus Pauperum, 

• Scala CcehV 

"You must go in, for there are fine Mur- 
illos here. 

ntered. and the porter led us with the 
quiet and somewhat stately courtesy one finds 
even-where in Spain, through double patios, 
separated by graceful columns. These patios, 
peculiar to Spain, are inner courts with arches 
and pillars, fountains and beautiful flowers 
and palms, and a glory of blue sky overhead. 

"Don Miguel de Maiiara lies buried in the 
chapel," said my guide. A Sister of Mercy 
came forward and unlocking a door led us into 
the chapel, impressive and dark. At the left 
of the altar was the picture of the miracle of 
loaves and fishes, one of Murillo's best, and 
opposite "La Sed " (The Thirst), or "Moses 
Striking the Rock." What struck me most 
about the latter, marvelous in coloring and 
tone, were the types of the characters — men, 



"LA MARAVILLA." 71 

women, boys, dogs, such as one may sec at 
any moment in the Triana, or suburb of Se- 
ville to-day. 

The landscape is Spanish, unspeakably rich 
in tone, and the Moses himself is dignity per- 
sonified. Murillo and Don Miguel were warm 
friends, and to the latter is due the preserva- 
tion of these superb paintings. This and the 
humility of Don Miguel's epitaph designed 
by himself makes one have a tendresse for this 
gay, wicked, artistic, repentant "Don Juan," 
buried beneath the slab of the high altar, on 
which one reads, "Here lies the greatest sinner 
that ever lived, Don Miguel de Maftara." 

"Near by, just beyond la Plaza de Santo 
Thomas is the shop where lived the Barber of 
Seville," said my cicerone. "We must see 
that and then Murillo's house, No. 7 Plaza de 
Alfaro, in the Juderio, where the great master 
died, in 1682," but I cried for mercy. 

"No more, I beg. Let me go home and 
eat luncheon and make my friend come with 
me later on. It is a shame for her to miss it 
all ; and then, my brain cannot hold so much. 
Is all Seville so full of interest?" 

'Every street and nearly every house," he 
answered, "has some story to it. Do you 
know the reason one street is called the 'Calle 
de la Cabeza del Rey Don Pedro,' and an- 
other one 'Calle de Candilejo?' " 



72 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"Oh, dear mc, no; I don't know what it 
means even," I cried. 

"Peter the Cruel," said my obliging com- 
panion, "was well-named, and delighted in 
nothing so much as catching his servants or 
officers in some misdemeanor, whereupon he 
made pin-cushions of them or had them 
bisected as ornaments for various city gates, 
or lay awake at night devising some other 
form of punishment equally pleasing. 

1 'Whether it was that he liked seeing people 
killed or because he feared the population 
would decrease too rapidly to fight his battles 
for him, I do not know, but at any rate Don 
Pedro forbade duelling, upon pain of death to 
the survivor. 

"Shortly after the edict, however, as the 
king was wandering in disguise through the 
streets one dark night, he came upon a cavalier 
with whom he had long wished to fight, and 
without a further thought Don Pedro whipped 
out his sword and promptly killed his adversary. 
Pushing up his mask, he wiped his weapon, 
and then remembered that his own edict had 
sentenced himself to death. Glancing hastily 
around and seeing that he was still unobserved, 
he laughed suddenly, as it flashed into his mind 
what a fine chance he had to make it unpleas- 
ant for the Alcalde or Mayor. Then he took 
his evil laugh back to the Alcazar rejoicing. 



"LA MARAVILLAr 73 

"Next day, sending for the Alcalde he de- 
manded, sternly: 'Where is the man who 
killed the cavalier on the Plaza near the Casa 
de Pilatos? If he be not found in three 
days, I shall hang you in his place,' and 
the poor Alcalde, trembling in every limb, 
withdrew to search Seville, in despair for the 
murderer. 

"Two days passed and he gave himself up 
for lost, when his sweetheart, a clever girl 
and as beautiful as are all Sevillianas, brought 
to him an old woman who alleged that she 
knew the murderer. 

" 'I heard the noise of the weapons, Sefior 
Alcalde,' she said, 'and as my trade is to lay 
out the dead, I knew I should be needed for 
one of the duellists; so I raised my window, 
and holding the candle, I plainly saw the king 
as he put up his mask. Moreover, I heard 
him laugh, and no one else in all Seville has 
such a laugh. I closed my lattice as quickly 
as I might, I tell you,' and the old woman 
wagged her head. Then was the Alcalde 
much rejoiced, and next day in the Plaza de 
San Francisco, the Alcalde hung the king in 
effigy, and justice was satisfied. 

"To this day the street where the duel was 
fought is called the street of the Bust of the 
King Don Pedro, because he placed his bust 
there to commemorate the event, and the alley 



74 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

from which the old woman peeped is called 
the Street of the Candle." 

"Oh! how charming to have a reason for 
the name of everything," I exclaimed. "What 
is happening here?" for a file of people were 
going into a garden gate. 

"A funeral, or rather there is to be one, and 
the corpse is now on view. Do n't look so 
shocked. It 's the custom. The furniture 
of the room where a person dies is all taken 
to the patio, partly to prevent infection and 
partly to avoid recalling the loss. The body 
is laid out in the principal room, and all may 
go and stare. It — the poor body — has to en- 
dure it, and is dressed as finely as possible 
even to new shoes. These are sold before the 
burial, and one of the worst things to say to a 
poor person in Seville is, 'You wear dead 
men's shoes.' The poor often expose their 
children's bodies openly in the streets, so that 
some one with money will buy them coffins; 
otherwise they must put them into the ground 
with only shrouds." 

"Ugh!" I exclaimed, "That's not a tale 
for gay Seville. It seems as if there must be 
no ugly doings in so fair a city. Tell me 
something else." 

"You know of the martyrs, Rufina and Jus- 
tina, two Christian girls, sellers of earthen 
jars, when the cathedral was a Roman tern- 



"LA MARAVILLA." 75 

pie. They refused to worship the goddess 
Venus, and were put to death near the Puerta 
del Sol, after the fiercest lions had refused to 
devour them. Murillo has made them more 
famous by his fine painting of them." But 
he had no time to say more, for we had 
reached the hotel and I rushed up to the 
sleeper and awakened her noisily. 

"Oh, what you have missed !" I exclaimed. 
"The sun has come out, and everything is 
glorious. Do get up and come and see 
things !" 

The Pessimist sat up in bed, rubbed her 
eyes, then remarked calmly: 

"I do n't see what I 've missed. I 've had 
a good nap, am quite rested, and ready to 
have you tell me all about everything. You 
always want to see things a dozen times, and 
it wont hurt you to go back again to all those 
places with me. You 've only gotten your 
feet wet and tired yourself out," she added, 
provokingly. 

"My feet are n't wet and I 'm not tired," 
I exclaimed, glancing guiltily at the mud 
which covered my overshoes and then in the 
mirror at my disheveled locks. "At any rate, 
I saw them first," I added, in child-like spleen. 

"He laughs best who laughs last," said the 
Pessimist. Somehow, now and then, the 
Pessimist and I seem to change places. 



CHAPTER V. 




SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 

IRST the cathedral!" I 
said, as we emerged from 
our charming hotel, the 
Madrid, to begin our 
sight-seeing. 

"Tell me about it," 
said my friend in the 
calmly authoritative manner with which she 
turns me into a guide-book. 

"You know when it was made, but perhaps 
you 've forgotten that when Saint Ferdinand 
had captured Seville the chapter said, 'We 
will build such a church that people will call us 
mad.* And they built it and called it La Gran- 
deza. Spanish-Gothic in its exquisite archi- 
tecture, it is massive and grand without, but 
the interior beggars description." As I spoke 
we entered the grand portal, and I went on 
softly: 

"See the clustering columns, airy pillars, 
colossal arches, and feel the awesome mystery 
which makes the heart standstill. Ah! La 

76 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 77 

Grandcza indeed ! The pillars were from the 
old Roman temple of Hercules and the Sara- 
cenic mosque, and there are nine entrances 
vying with each other for beauty, the door 
of San Miguel being especially noted. 

The Portal de los Naranjos is one of the 
finest specimens of the Mudejar style, with its 
high horse-shoe arch, built by Alfonso XI. 
The many chapels, with their simplicity and 
perfection of detail, make this cathedral one of 
the finest in the world though it is much to 
be regretted that the many earthquake shocks 
have injured the building." 

"Who is buried here?" asked the Pessimist, 
pointing to a plain slab let into the floor be- 
hind the choir. On it was a Latin inscription 
and two small caravels were carved, one on 
either side. 

"Fernando Colon, son of Columbus," I an- 
swered. "He died in Seville in 1586, and the 
inscription says, 'Of what avails it that I have 
bathed the entire universe with my sweat, 
that I have thrice passed through the New 
World discovered by my father, that I have 
adorned the banks of the gentle Beti and pre- 
ferred my simple taste to riches, that I might 
again draw around thee the divinities of the 
Castalian spring and offer thee the treasures 
already gathered by Ptolemy, if thou, in 
passing this stone in silence, returncst no sa- 



7$ WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

lute to my father and givest no thought to 
me?" 

"What does it mean?" asked my friend. 
"Ferdinand Columbus sailed everywhere, 
and with infinite pains gathered a library of 
most valuable books, which he willed to the 
cathedral, and which library is called La Co- 
lumbiana. l A Costilla y a Leon nuevo muudo 
dio Colon,' the slab says. In the library are 
Columbus' note-books in his own handwriting 
and all the details of the voyage. Just think, 
if it had n't been for him you and I mio-ht 
have been Spaniards or French or even 
Danes!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. 

"You might have been anything you like, 
even a Hottentot, but I could n't have been 
anything but an American, " said the Pessi- 
mist, sternly. 

"I do n't see how you 'd have managed it 
if America hadn't been discovered," I re- 
turned, as we went into the chapel Royal to 
see St. Ferdinand's tomb. 

"His was not the age of great kingly virtue, 
and his character stands out all the more in 
brave relief against the vices of his day, for lie 
was saint as well as king, and showed his 
Christianity in more ways than by conquering 
infidels. 

"There he lies, in his crystal coffin, his 
sword in his hand, that sword which was 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 79 

never raised in unrighteous warfare, and from 
the handle of which Peter the Cruel, took all 
the precious gems, lest, as he said, 'the hand 
of the ungodly might take them.' Oh, godly 
Pedro!" 

"We have n't scon the pictures yet," said 
the Pessimist. "Where are the famous ones?" 

"Here in the sacristy major is the 'Descent 
from the Cross ' by Pedro Campana. It is an 
awfully grand thing. Murillo used to stand 
here and gaze, the tears running down his 
face, saying, 'I am waiting until those holy 
men have taken down our Lord.' In the 
chapter-house, just there where the shaft of 
purple light from that window strikes the 
column, is the 'Conception,' not so fine as the 
one in the museum or that in Paris. 

''The gem is in the Baptistery, — the St. 
Anthony. This is the one from which the 
figure was cut, stolen and carried to New York 
in 1874, but it was finally recovered and faults 
lessly replaced. It was of this picture that 
Antonio Castello, nephew of the great Castello 
( Murillo's master), said, "It is all over with 
Castello. Is it possible that Murillo, my 
uncle's imitator, can be the author of that 
grace and beauty of coloring?" 

"He looks as if he did n't have enough to 
eat and would take cold in his bald spot," 
said the Pessimist. 



So WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"You are incorrigible." I answered, "I 
sha' n't take you to see the 'Guardian Angel,' 
though it 's one of the most exquisite of all 
Murillo's. We will go to the Alcazar, 
through the Court of Oranges, all that is left 
of the old mosque. 

' 'Are not the orange-trees beautiful? There 
is the Giralda again. Oh! how I wish Geber, 
who built it, had spent all his life in making 
such airy, graceful, perfect things, instead of 
inventing Algebra with which to torment un- 
happy school girls. I never saw a more per- 
fect rose color than the walls of the Giralda. 
There, that bare, square-looking facade is the 
Alcazar." 

"I can 't say much for it then," said the 
Pessimist, grimly. "Do you mean to say 
that is the palace you 've been raving over?" 

"Wait, wait, Pessimist!" I said, as we 
entered the gate and the matchless palace was 
reached. 

Even the Pessimist was silenced at the 
entrancing vision of Moorish work. 

"Tell me about it," she commanded, and 
delighted, I began: 

"It was the House of Caesar, and then an 
old Moorish fortress, and is so preserved as to 
give a perfect idea of the palaces of the Ara- 
bian Nights. Long before the Alhambra was 
finished at Granada, the Toledan architect, 




Mi in i nV - Padu \. 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 8 1 

Jalubi, built the Alcazar, but it was Don Pedro 
el Cruel who rebuilt and beautified it. 

''Portals and arches and door- ways and 
floors and courts, tiles and patios, all are 
Moorish and blazoned like gems in a golden 
crown. 

"Memories throng each court, and spectres 
crowd from every nook and crevice, each with 
a tale of love or woe. 

"Here in this open court sat Peter the 
Cruel, posing as El Rey Justiciero — the Dis- 
penser of Justice. His was justice of a rough 
and ready sort, to suit his own will. 

"From that quaint patio so fragrantly 
clothed in flowers, I see step an array of 
maidens, two hundred in all, and as their 
snowy mantles are lifted and their eyes gleam 
forth, I see the Moorish king smile, well- 
pleased. 

"This is the Patio de los Doncellos, and 
those maidens are Andalucian beauties made 
to pass before the Saracen ruler that he may 
choose fifty rich and fifty poor, of all the 
fairest, for his harem. Were they glad or 
sorry to be left — those Andalucian girls? Is 
vanity stronger than love of country in the 
feminine breast of Spain? 

"From behind that lace-like marble screen 
peers a face; Venus or Juno or Undine or all 
together were not more fair. Such glorious 



82 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

eyes, dark as night, such luxuriant hair, lips 
proud and sensuous, languorous grace, and 
witching smile! 

"Who is she, Queen or Princess? Neither, 
unless both by right of royal beauty, for 
this is Maria de Padilla, mistress — some say 
wife — of Peter the Cruel. No wonder Pedro 
forgot even his pet delight of cruelty for 
her. 

"For her he built these rooms and fount- 
ains. This water, pearly white and flowing 
between orange and citron-trees, was where la 
Padilla bathed, and the courtiers drank the 
water to show their gallantry. 

"What is there left of her now — this 
woman so fair, and yet who loved her cruel 
lord so well and tried to wield a gentler sway 
over him? Nothing but dust and a stately 
tomb within the cathedral. Not even an un- 
stained memory. Alas, poor Maria! 

"Here is yet again a memory of the Alcazar, 
and on this dark night no Moorish beauties 
peered into the Hall of Ambassadors. Don 
Fadrique, brother of Pedro, was sent for in 
brotherly friendship to come to a tournament 
at Seville. 

" 'We cannot joust without your knightly 
arms, my good brother,' wrote el Cruel, and 
trusting Don Fadrique came. Alas! he 
found no welcome, no gay and joyous festi- 



SE VILLE, THE FAIR. S3 

val, only a darkened hall, and then he felt a 
sudden onslaught. 

"He tried to grope his way to the patio. 
The assailants closed upon him. His good 
sword laid them low, as he stood with his 
back against a carved pillar. Then his sword 
hand caught — perhaps entangled in his badge 
as Grand Master of Santiago, perhaps ham- 
pered in his caballero 's cloak, and he fell, and 
there his blood stains the tesselated pavement 
to this very day, and there the king spurned 
the body with his foot. 

4 'Don Pedro, you have much to answer 
for, yet naught more dastardly than this foul 
and treacherous murder. 

14 Surely this is the fairest patio in all sunny 
Spain, here with the arabesques and lace 
traceries and latticed casements with close 
jalousies (or jealousy-s) from which the fair 
Padilla looked down upon her lord. No 
such deeds should have been done here. 
There should have been naught but love and 
chivalry. 

'Yet, once more, I see Don Pedro, with 
his boyish, smiling face, too fair to belong to 
so vile a heart. Once again he violates the 
laws of chivalric hospitality. 

'This stately figure in scarlet trousers and 
silken vestments, with the calm tranquillity of 
the Orient in his liquid eyes, is Laban Ber- 



84 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

mejo, the Red King of Granada. In his 
orange turban he wore many priceless gems — 
the greatest a Saracenic Kohinoor or Balax, a 
priceless ruby, as red as his life's blood, and 
with his very blood he paid for his visit of 
friendly homage to the king. Pedro saw and 
coveted the jewel, slew Laban, and stole his 
gem. 

''After Maria de Padilla had decked her 
regal brow with it Don Pedro gave it to the 
Black Prince at the battle of Navarreta, and 
until this day it shines in the regalia of Eng- 
land." 

"Let us go somewhere else," said the Pes- 
simist at last. "Ugh! you make me shud- 
der," and she urged me forth, into the won- 
derful gardens, looking over her shoulder as 
if expecting to see a ghostly figure stealing 
behind her. 

Sunshine of the tropics; huge banana-trees 
waving their rough, green leaves like the sails 
of Don Quixote's windmills; palms in a fine 
frenzy; stately cypress-trees sternly pointing 
aloft ; cedars fragrant with Eastern perfumes 
of Lebanon or Nazareth ; box-bordered walks 
and beds; a tangle of jasmine, sweeter than 
odors of Araby the blest, and overhead a sky 
of matchless blue. This is the vision which 
the memory of the Alcazar gardens brings to 
one's mind. The Giralda in the distance 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 85 

towers over the town, the stern profile of the 
cathedral peers over the tops of the walls and 
trees, and the scene has such a sweet tran- 
quillity, it seems scarcely possible that the city 
lies without, teeming with life and activity. 

"What has happened here?" said my 
friend, as she sat down leisurely on a bench 
where a fountain splashed coolly in the shade. 

"There, in that corner where it is so sun- 
shiny and bright, is the labyrinth of Charles V. 
I can see his strong face which Titian painted 
in such wonderful color, with the rugged feat- 
ures, and the prominent under lip — a plain 
face, yet he was every inch a king. Down 
that path, he stepped. There glistened upon 
his finger the single ring he always wore, the 
one given to him by Isabella, his wife. 

"I can see the purple of his velvet cape 
drawn close about his frail form ; for he was 
always chilly, this poor, gouty king. There 
he sought his gardener and there they con- 
sulted about the famous labyrinth — how the 
statue should be in the center and the plan of 
the maze engraven on the floor of the pavilion, 
done in finest bronze. 'Here in this Alcazar 
where I have been so happy, I wish to leave 
my mark when I am gone,' murmured Charles; 
and here it is to remind us of the great emperor, 
when he is moldering to dust in his dark sar- 
cophagus in the Pantheon at the Escorial. 



86 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"A pleasant memory is this of the mighty 
king, crowned with the title, ' Emperor of the 
Romans' by the Holy Father himself; ruler 
of Austria through his father the archduke; 
ruler of Spain by virtue of his mother, poor 
mad queen Juana, and liberator of twenty-two 
thousand Christian slaves by his own prowess 
at arms. 

"Near by is the bath of his poor mother, 
queen though she was, yet unable to reign on 
the one throne she coveted, the heart of the 
man she loved, Philippe le Bel, Duke of Bur- 
gundy. 

" I see the mad queen now, her eyes flashing 
fire at her unfortunate maid of honor, whose 
only crime was that Duke Philip had admired 
her luxuriant hair. 

u 'Cut it off!' shrieks the queen. 'Cut off 
her hair! Not a word, minions, be thankful 
it is not her head.' 

"Poor, mad Juana! Ah! what avails it to 
be a queen and wealthy and fair, tod, in your 
wild dark way, since you may not have the 
love you crave so sorely? 

" Then, here, creeping down that path, hold- 
ing in his slender hands five oranges, I see our 
old acquaintance, Don Pedro, him of the 
bust and the candle story. 

"He is smiling, well-pleased, and well we 
know that smile bodes no good for those 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 87 

within his thoughts. How his lips curl back 
from his strong white teeth, and how like a 
fox he looks ! 

' ' How carefully he cuts the oranges in halves 
and floats them, the flat side down, upon the 
limpid water of the fountain! How pleased 
he looks that the reflection is perfect! He 
calls the guard and they bring in four judges, 
trembling in every limb. 

" ' How many oranges are there?' says Don 
Pedro, smiling in their affrighted faces. 

11 ' May it please your most gracious majesty. 
There are ten,' they stammered. 

" 'It does not please my majesty to have 
four fools as judges,' he screamed. 'Liars, 
knaves! There are five!' as he flung the 
oranges in their faces. 

" 'Off with their heads!' his oft repeated 
cry, and there at that cornice the heads hung 
for days and weeks." 

"Ah!" sighed the Pessimist. lt It makes 
one feel that nothing pays. Wealth and tri- 
umph and fame, all are buried in the grave, 
and all is over at last." 

"Oh, no, Pessimist!' I exclaimed, "The 
best of all is left. See these gardens. All 
who made them are long since dust, yet the 
flowers are fair and sweet these hundred 
years. And as to a good name, only think of 
being handed down to posterity with such a 



88 



WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 



reputation as Don Pedro el Cruel. It 's worth 
being good, if only to prevent that." 

"'The evil that men do lives after them, 
the good is oft interred with their bones,'" 
quoted the Pessimist dismally. 

"Oft, but not always. Who would n't 
rather have been St. Ferdinand than Don 
Pedro? Would you rather be remembered as 
Maria de Padilla with all her fame and gran- 
deur, or as the pure, beautiful, ill-fated Donna 
Urraca Osorio, whom Pedro had burned to 
death? She was so spotlessly pure and mod- 
est that her little maid (when she saw the 
flames fan aside her mistress' robes at the 
stake), rushed in to cover her form from 
the gaze of the idle crowd, and died with her." 

"Only one more memory of the Alcazar, 
and this shows truly the sternness of retribu- 
tive justice. Do you see, in your mind's eye, 
Horatio, that tall figure — in his face so much 
of stern valor, dignity and pride, such inten- 
sity of will? 

•"Who are you?' demands Charles V., as 
the courtier tries to press through the crowd 
to obtain audience of the king. 

'"Hernando Cortez, sire. A man who has 
given your majesty more kingdoms than your 
father had towns,' was the reply of the 
haughty old Don. 

' 'Charles turned from him in stern displeas- 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 89 

ure, poisoned against him by slanderous 
tongues, and Cortez's great heart broke at his 
king's ingratitude. Silently he went home, 
to die seven years later, still unforgiven and 
unhonored. Did the screams of one hundred 
thousand slaughtered Mexicans rend his ears, 
and the innocent faces of the vestals of the 
Mexican Sun-God appear before him? 

''Did he hear the dying words of Monte- 
zuma as he lay upon the bed of coals — 'Am I 
reposing upon a bed of roses?' 

"Ah! Cortez — lonely old man — was your 
death-bed one of roses?" 

"I must say you have a collection of the 
most grewsome tales I ever heard," said the 
Pessimist. "I did n't know Cortez was here." 

"He died at Castileja de la Cuesta, just 
outside Seville, but he and Pizarro and Co- 
lumbus all sailed from here down the Guadal- 
quivir," I answered. "As for the grewsome- 
ness of it, those were grewsome times. The 
history of Seville would fill volumes. 

"Caesar conquered it 45 B.C., and Roman 
relics are constantly being found. Vandals 
and Goths lived here; the Moors reigned with 
the noted Umeyyah family, and under them 
were established the silk factories, and the 
greatest prosperity existed. St. Ferdinand 
conquered it in 1248, and the Moors, and 
later the Jews, were sent away to Africa. 



90 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Such a mistake it was, for they were its most 
thrifty citizens. It was an awful blow to 
them, too. In the cathedral are some of the 
keys they gave up to the king, but that of the 
Puerta del Sol has never been found, for the 
Moors were so sure of returning that they 
took it away with them. 

"The African Jews still call themselves 
'descendants of the catastrophe of Castile,' 
and their important Hebrew documents are 
signed, ' HacJwl Bcminaliry Castilla (accord- 
ing to the usage of Castile). 

" Alfonso the Wise gave lands to the nobles 
and this was called 'El Rcpartimicnto,' and 
Seville was always faithful to him ; so he 
granted them the motto, l No 8 Do — (It 
has never deserted me) — and this, with the 
three silk skeins, is their badge to this day. 

"Now let us go to the house of Pilate. It 
belongs to the Duke of Medina-Celi, was 
made by Pedro Enrique and finished in an 
exact copy of Pilate's house at Jerusalem by 
Don Fadrique, Marquis of Tarifa, on his 
return from a visit to the Holy Land. It 
was a regular salon for literati in the time of 
the Duke of Alcala, who was the Mecaenas of 
Spain and rivaled the Colonna in Italy. 

"Cervantes, Gongora and Rioja were all fre- 
quenters, and also Pacheco, who wrote the lives 
of the artists. 



SEVILLE, THE FAIR. 91 

"Here it is. It 's rather dingy 011 the ex- 
terior, but that 's a nice motto for a house, 
1 Nisi Do))ii)uis adificaverit dotnutn i)i vanum 
laboraverunt qui cedificant cam.' What is 
that Spanish motto? There are the three 
crosses of Jerusalem, the Medina Celi arms 
and 'en 4. Agosto in 15 19 cntro in Hicrusa- 
letn.' He must have been a pious old soul. 
Come, let us go in," and we entered the hall, 
tiled in various colors, with busts of the 
Roman emperors gleaming from niches, and a 
magnificent Minerva in one corner of the patio. 

"There is the Credo engraved on the door, 
more piety, and there 's a bust of Pallas and 
one of Venus. Strange mixture, is n't it, 
Pessimist?" 

"I should say so," she said. "Speaking 
of piety, where was the Inquisition held?" 

"It was first established in the Moorish cas- 
tle in Triana, but the Qucmadcro, or burning 
place was on the plain outside the town. 

"It had to be in a large place, because the 
Spaniards love a spectacle, cruel or otherwise, 
and always flock to an execution. 

'There never was in all the world such a 
political mesh as the Inquisition. 

"Political intriguers cloaked and hooded 
under the garb of religion their private spite 
and revenge, proclaiming to the world that 
they were actuated by motives of religion." 



9 2 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"Do n't preach," said the Pessimist. "Let 
us go and see something pleasant." 

"I think, my dear Pessimist," I replied, 
"that I have found a sure cure for your lugu- 
briousness. After this, when you 're gloomy 
I shall tell you all the weird tales I know, and 
see if you do n't re-act as you have done to- 
day." 



CHAPTER VI. 



SPANISH DANCES. 




E have n't seen a single 
Spanish dance and we 've 
been in Seville a week," 
grumbled the Pessimist. 

"We are going to see 
them this very day, for the 
famous boys' dance takes 
place in the cathedral. It is held only two or 
three times a year, and we are fortunate to be 
here at Easter to see it. Come, we must 
hurry off at once or we '11 not be in time," 
and the Pessimist and I wended our way to- 
ward La Grandeza, reaching its massive portals 
as the peasants, in mantillas and sombre 
dresses (for they always wear plain clothes to 
church), were returning from an early mass. 

How still it was within this grand temple. 
The throng of people was quiet and the serv- 
ice not yet begun, and as we sat waiting, 
amidst nobles and peasants, old Don and 
plainest cigarette-maker, the beauty and 
grandeur of the scene was past telling. 

93 



94 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"All sorts and conditions of men, women, 
and children, all nations and races in seeming 
harmony; surely this is the millennium," I 
whispered. 

"I hope the millennium won't be as chilly 
as this," said the Pessimist, shivering. 
"What are those things on the altar?" 

"The famous relics, St. Ferdinand's cup, 
King Roderick's cross and the keys of Se- 
ville, surrendered to St. Ferdinand. One 
says, 'May Allah render eternal the rule of 
Islam in this city!' The other was given by 
the Jews, and says, 'The King of kings will 
open; the King of all the earth will enter.' 
There come the boys," I whispered, and 
there began a strain of music so piercing sweet 
as to take one's breath away. Flutes, haut- 
boys, the grand organ, and violins mingled 
with boyish, flute-like voices, sweet and clear, 
and suddenly out of the great darkness ap- 
peared a troop of boys. 

They formed into lines before the altar and 
began the dance, de los seises, as it is called, 
and never was there anything more exquisite. 
The grace of the boyish figures in their plumed 
hats, silk hose, white satin clothes and man- 
tles of the Blessed Virgin's own blue over 
their shoulders; the sweetness of their voices, 
the earnestness of their faces, for they evi- 
dently regarded the dance as a solemn religious 



SPANISH DANCES. 95 

rite — and the rythmic movement of the minuet 
they danced, all produced an impression not 
easily forgotten ; and as they disappeared as 
quietly as they had come, I gave a great sigh 
of pleasure. 

The Pessimist arose and motioned me to 
come out, and I followed her silently into the 
Court of the Oranges. 

"Isn't it awful?" she said. "Dancing in 
church !" 

"That depends upon how you look at it. 
I thought it charming. Did n't David dance? 
The Holy Scriptures say so. Surely the nat- 
ural thing for a child to do is to dance for joy, 
and is not Easter the time for rejoicing that 
our Lord is risen from the tomb? You would 
have agreed with the old archbishop, two 
hundred years. ago." 

"What did he do?" she inquired. 

"He objected to the dancing and forbade it. 
The people rose in wrath at having their customs 
interfered with. Spaniards are great respecters 
of antiquity, and 'What our fathers have done 
is good enough for us,' they say constantly. 

"Well, there was a great to do about 
it, and at last they appealed to the Holy 
Father. He — being a sensible man, as well 
as the Pope, promptly replied that he could n't 
disapprove or approve of what he had never 
seen. Whereupon a rich merchant of Seville 



96 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

transported the whole company, boys, cos- 
tumes, and musicians to the Vatican. There 
the children danced and sang, to the extreme 
delight of His Holiness, who remarked, 'Our 
Lord called the little children to Him. Would 
He make them walk on stilts and wear long 
faces? Let the boys dance so long as their 
costumes last.' 

"Every one went back to Seville very well 
satisfied ; and as care has been taken to renew 
first one part of the costume and then another, 
they have been miraculously preserved, and 
the dance continues." 

"That 's what might be called 'beating the 
devil around the stump,' ' said my friend. 
"Where did you say Murillo's 'Virgin of the 
Napkin ' was?" 

"In the picture gallery, where we cannot go 
to-day, but I '11 tell you about it if you like. 

"This picture of the Virgin is not one of 
his best. The Virgin is not the ethereal, 
shadowy being that he usually paints, but an 
Andalucian beauty, with a wonderful skin, 
gypsy face, and rippling hair. 

"The baby is a darling, though not Christ- 
like, only a genuine flesh and blood niiio. 
Murillo lived then in the Capuchin convent, 
near the Cordova gate, and was painting one 
day when a lay brother came in to bring him 
his dinner. 



SPANISH DANCES. 97 

" 'Ah, Maestro /' cried the poor monk, 
'What a gift el buen Dios has given to you! 
Could I but have one of your Virgins I could 
die happy.' 

11 'Money cannot buy them, but friendship 
may,' said Murillo. 'Bring me a canvas that I 
may paint for you.' 

" 'Alas! I have not even a peseta,' said 
the Capuchin. 

" 'But this will do,' said the painter, tak- 
ing up his napkin and beginning to paint 
rapidly. Then glancing out of the window, 
he exclaimed: " 'Is it she? The gitana I 
loved so long ago?' as he saw a gypsy girl with 
a child in her arms. 

"He painted her portrait and that of the 
baby upon the rough dinner napkin, and that 
night an angel came to him in a dream and 
said, 'Murillo, the picture of the gypsy girl 
thou usedst to love give thou to the brother, 
for she belongs not to thee but to another. 
To keep her portrait is a sin.' 

"And when the morning broke he gave the 
portrait to the monk, who cherished it care- 
fully in the chapel of the monastery." 

The Pessimist always receives legends as if 
she were being forced to believe them, and 
she gave quite an audible sniff as I related 
the story; then asked: 

"Where did Carmen live?" 



98 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

" There was no real Carmen, but there are 
dozens of just such girls over there in the 
great tobacco factory. Only think, that huge 
building cost $1,850,000. 

"The cigarette girls are usually very pretty, 
and we '11 probably see many of them to-mor- 
row night at the dance in the Cafe Ojeda." 

And so we did, for our guide, a most oblig- 
ing youth, who seemed to speak every known 
language and several unknown ones, took us 
down to No. 1 1 Sierpes, where the national 
dances are to be seen. 

One hears a great deal of the beauty of Span- 
ish women. I should call it rather fascination. 
Their features are not perfect, their figures 
seldom are, but they are always charming. 

Of course, it goes without saying that peo- 
ple with such eyes and such lashes must use 
them. 

Their manners, their laughter, their gayety, 

their languorous or their vivacious grace, all 

these are charms far beyond the beauties of 

those who are ''faultily faultless, icily regular, 

splendidly null." 

There ne'er was born a Spanish woman yet, 
But she was born to dance, 

and when one adds to these charms, a pair 
of arched feet, slender and tiny which, "be- 
neath her petticoat, like little mice " twinkle 
and dance, and an undulating grace of 



SPANISH DAA T CBS. 99 

rhythmic movement, then one understands 
why men and women from the days of Pliny 
down, have raved over Spanish dancing. 
Describe it? 

Certainly not. One can merely say, "Go 
to Sevilla and see Sefiorita Mercedes dance an 
Olc, or with three others a CacJiucJia and then 
sing a few capias of the Segtiidilla. 

Do not flatter yourself that you will wait 
until she comes to this country, as Sefiorita 
Mercedita, the great Spanish danseuse from 
il La Follic "in Paris. 

When she does, she will be merely another 
skirt dancer, tiresome as are they all. She 
will have gone to Paris, from Seville, and will 
have learned to kick instead of to glide, to 
jerk instead of sway, and to wear ballet tarle- 
tan instead of mantilla and bolero jacket. 

"What else are we to see in Seville?" asked 
the Pessimist, as we strolled about the streets 
toward the end of our stay. 

'We are going now to the old Cartuja con- 
vent, which is now a porcelain factory, and 
then into Triana to study gypsies. 

'This suburb of Seville was named from the 
Emperor Trajan, who was born near here, and 
it is one of the most picturesque spots in Seville. 

"Then we 're going to take a peasant's cart, 
a donkey harnessed to it, with bells and rib 
bun.\ and drive about the environs." 



ioo WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

We carried out our programme to the letter. 
A gay Spaniard acting as guide, we drove out 
to Italica, founded by Scipio Africanus in B.C. 
547- 

It was the birthplace of Trajan and Theo- 
dosius, and the Roman ruins are fine, and the 
landscape is magnificent. 

"Near here was the great battle of the Cid, 
Pessimist," I said. 

"Tell me about it," she commanded, and I 
complied. 

"Don Alfonso sent the Cid (the Spanish 
Bayard, living j n the eleventh century) from 
Burgos down here to Seville to receive the 
tribute which was owed by Almucanis, Arab 
king of Cordova and Seville. 

"Now Mudafer, Saracen king of Granada, 
aided by Count Garcia Obdonez, Castilian foe 
of El Cid, was at odds with Almucanis, and 
the Cid threatened vengeance if they assailed 
Almucanis, the 'friend of the king and the 
breast-plate of Castile.' 

"Notwithstanding this, the foe entered the 
territory of Seville, and put it to fire and sword. 
The Cid, hearing of their depredations, upon 
his war-horse Babieca, met them at Cabra, 
and there ensued a bloody fight. The Cid 
cried : 



SPANISH DANCES. 101 

" 'Smite, smite my knights, for mercy's sake. On boldly, 

on to war. 
I am Ruy Diaz de Bivar, El Cid Campeador!' 
Three hundred lances then were couched with pennons 

streaming gay, 
Three hundred shields were pierced through, no steel 

the shock might stay; 
Three hundred hauberks were torn off in that encounter 

sore; 
Three hundred snow-white pennons were crimson dyed 

in gore; 
Three hundred chargers wandered loose — their lords 

were overthrown; 
The Christians cry, "Saint James for Spain!" the Moor- 
men cry, " Mahoun ! " 

"But in all the fearful fray, the noble Cid, 
called the ' Beauteous Beard ' was foremost, 
and he conquered in the end. 

"However, the Castilian knights preju- 
diced the King Alfonso against him and Ali 
Muimon, Arab king of Toledo, complained 
that Ruy Diaz had laid waste his territory, 
though this had been done by the Arabs 
themselves. So King Alfonso banished the 
Cid in disgrace. Alas! poor Cid, but he said, 
only: 

" 'I obey, O King Alfonso, 
Guilty though in naught I be, 
For it doth behoove a vassal 
To obey his lord's decree. 
Prompter far am I to serve thee 
Than thou art to guerdon me. 
I do pray our Holy Lady 
Her protection to afford 



102 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

That thou never may in battle 

Need the Cid's right arm and sword. 

Well I wot at my departure 

Without sorrow thou canst smile, 

Well I wot that envious spirits 

Noble bosoms can beguile; 

But time will show, for this can ne'er be hid, 

That they are women-knights, but I — El CuL* 

"He was a splendid old fellow, Pessimist, 
and we '11 see him again at Burgos and at Bar- 
celona." 



CHAPTER VII. 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. 

" The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town, 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Vivarambla, on he goes. 
Ay de mi, Alhama! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell; 
In the fire the scroll he threw 
And the messenger he slew, 
Ay de mi, Alhama! " 



<^<^<^<^^^L< 




HEN when the King of 
Granada, poor Boabdil, 
heard from the messen- 
ger that the Marquis of 
Cadiz had taken the 
city of Alhama, the 
stronghold of the Moors 
and key of Granada, he would not believe the 
terrible news, and sore he wept, and all within 
the Red Castle, men and women cried, ' Ay de 
mi Alhama !' But it was long, long before that 
the Alhambra was built. In the reign of Suwar 
Ibn Hamdun the first tower was made, and it 
was Ibn-1-Ahmar, the founder of the Cali- 

103 



104 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

phate of Granada who built the real palace in 
1238. Each Moorish king took pride in beau- 
tifying some portion of it, and the gold for 
the gilding was procured from Africa in huge 
nuggets and beaten into strips before using. 

Never anywhere in Moorish Spain has there 
been such a combination of airiness and lace- 
like traceries, such mosaic pavements, and 
such clusters of arches as here in our Alham- 
bra. No wonder the Moors wept to leave it. 
It was cruel." 

"You are Spanish, are you not?" I asked 
as we sat upon the stone parapet, just outside 
the Gate of Justice, before entering the Al- 
hambra. 

We had just arrived, the Pessimist and I, 
had eaten a delicious dinner at the Hotel Siete 
Suelos and had been sent out in the charge of a 
young Spanish friend to have our first glimpse 
of the wonderful Alhambra by moonlight. 

"Spanish, yes, sefiorita, but on my moth- 
er's side, far, far away there is a Moorish an- 
cestor. You know the old saying, 'Once a 
Moor to love them ever,' and I have much feel- 
ing for them. Perhaps it is because I so much 
love all this," with a little gesture around. 

"It must have been terrible to leave it. No 
wonder the old chronicle says, 'Boabdil wept 
like a child over the kingdom he could not 
keep like a man.' 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. 1 05 

O, my city of Granada! that never had a peer, 

The pride of every Moorish land, to all the Moslems dear, 

For seven hundred years has the crown been worn by 

thee 
Of the famous line of monarchs that now must end with 

me; 
I see thy fields and meadows, thou Vega of renown, 
And thy fragrant flowers are withered, thy stately trees 

are down, 
O woe betide the luckless king, who such a crown has 

lost, 
Tis his to feel the bitter shame, 'tis his to pay the cost. 
No more to ride a horse of war, or rank amongst his 

peers, 
But live where none can see his shame, and end his life 

in tears." 

'Why is this called the Gate of Justice?" 
asked the Pessimist. 

"It was the beginning of the fortress and 
some say it was built for a seat of judgment. 
The Arabs had many customs from the Jews, 
and they were used to sit in the city gates. 

'The Caliph had to see all who came to 
ask justice, and he received them here. Over 
the pillars is carved, 'There is no God but 
Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet;' and 
this motto you will find all over the palace. 
Then the hand over the door is to ward off the 
evil eye, and the key is a symbol that the 
Prophet has power to open and shut the gates 
of Heaven. 

"But, to-morrow, you will see all this, seft- 



Io6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

orita. To-night, you must see the view from 
the Torre de la Vela by moonlight," and 
Diego de Gonzalez led us down the court, 
where eerie shrubs peered at us and strange 
flower scents were wafted to us, up to a huge 
tower. 

"Can we enter to-night?" I asked. 

Diego laughed gayly. 

"Sefiorita, I have lived close to our Alham- 
bra ever since I was a child. Save the three 
years I was in Gibraltar at the English school, 
I have never been away. I know every nook 
and corner of this place and all the custodians 
know me. Old Dolores would let me into the 
Vela at midnight if I wished," and he knocked 
heavily on the iron-bound door. 

A step was heard, a light crept through the 
chinks, and a quavering voice said: 

"Who comes?" 

"I, Diego. Let us enter, Dolores mia" 
said the boy. 

The heavy door swung back on its hinges, 
with a creaking as of a dungeon cell, and the 
light of a candle flamed in our faces. 

tl Bien vcnido, Diego mio" said an old 
woman, her hair quite white under her lace 
mantilla, but her eyes dark and soft. She 
added something in Spanish, at which Diego 
smiled. 

"She says thrice welcome to the friends of 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. 1 07 

her friends," he explained as he led us up the 
steps, — narrow, winding steps, dark and steep, 
with small platforms and grated windows, — up 
and up till, breathless, we reached the sum- 
mit and stood upon the flat top of the Torre 
de la Vela. 

"There!" cried Diego, triumphantly, "Is 
it not a view?" 

We stood speechless. Rising from the cen- 
ter of the roof, against the sky stood out the 
famous watch-tower of the Moors, from which 
rang forth the great bell of the fortress, peal- 
ing weal or woe to the people. 

From the distance came sounds of guitars 
and castanets in the Albaicin or gypsy quar- 
ters below on the right, while in front of us 
sloped down to the Darro the wooded hills, 
and beyond lay the town, snowy and silent. 
The pure heights of the sierras in the far dis- 
tance and the plains of the Vega, the sapphire 
sky — even at that hour blue and dotted with 
countless stars, brilliant and gleaming — and 
the soft haze of the moonlight, all this made 
a scene so perfect that one's senses could only 
yield as a harp played upon by fairy music. 
And when the gypsy music died away, and 
through the stillness there came the sweet 
and wonderful song of the nightingale from 
the chestnut woods below, we felt that the 
climax was reached, and as the bird's clear 



ioS 



WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 



notes died away upon the pure night air, I 
exclaimed : 

"Sevillians say their city is a marvel, but it 
seems to me Granada is one, too." 

"Ah, sefiorita, don't you know what the 
Granadino replied to the Sevillian boast about 
La Maravilla?" Diego said 

" x Quien no ha vista Granada 
No ha vista nada? 

"See, there are the towers. Do you know 
the history of that one close by the walls? 
To it came King Alfonso El Sabio, when 
Ibn-1-Ahmar was Caliph of Granada. This 
was after the war with Prince Sancho El Bravo, 
who rebelled against his father and deprived 
him of his throne. 

"All his wisdom and mildness did not help 
El Rey Alfonso to regain his lost kingdom and 
he sought the help of the Moors. 

"They revered him much, for he was a 
scholar and had written many books, and the 
Saracens esteemed knowledge hierhlv 

'He it was who wrote 'The Great Con- 
quest Beyond the Sea,' and well the Moors 
knew that it told the history of Mohammed, 
and of the struggle of Saracen and Christian 
at the Holy Sepulchre. 

"Alfonso had compiled the ' Partidas ' or 
law-book, modeled after the old. Roman law. 
These were well spoken of by those Moors 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. 109 

who had been at the court of the King at 
Valencia, either as hostages or envoys. 

4 'The rules for the upbringing of princesses 
must have seemed very curious to the Moors, 
who brought up their women for harems, not 
for courts. 

" 'The king's daughters,' says the Partidas, 
'must endeavor to be moderate in eating and 
drinking, in their carriage and dress, and have 
good manners in all things, especially that 
they be not given to anger, for besides the 
wickedness that lieth in it, that is the thing 
in all the world which most easily leadeth a 
woman to do ill. They must be handy at 
performing the works which do belong to 
noble ladies, since it becometh them much and 
they obtain by it cheerfulness and a quiet spirit. ' 

"It was this Alfonso who came to Granada 
two years before his death in 1282, to ask aid 
from the Caliph. Perhaps it was here, too, 
that he wrote that curious letter to his kins- 
man, a Guzman, in favor at the court of Fez — 
'Cousin Don Alonzo Perez de Guzman,' 
the letter begins, 'My affliction is great and I 
find no protection in my own land, neither 
champion nor defender; and since they of 
Castile have been false to me, none can think 
it ill that I ask help among the Benamarin. 

' ' ' Consider of what lineage you are, and, my 
good cousin, do so much for me with my lord 



HO WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

and your friend Abn Jusef, that, on the 
pledge of my jewels, he may lend me so 
much as he may hold to be just. And so 
may God's friendship be with you. 

" 'EIRey, Alfonso X.' " 

"He may have visited here, Diego," I said, 
"but I think that letter was written at Se- 
ville. At any rate it 's very interesting, and I 
wish the poor king had gotten back his king- 
dom, instead of dying at Seville crownless, 
while his rascally son reigned in his stead. 
"Where is the tower of La Cautiva?" 

"There, the square tower to the left. 
There pined Dona Isabella de Solis, Zoraya or 
Morning Star, favorite Sultana of Abul Has- 
san. To her was due the fall of the Alham- 
bra," said Diego. 

"Why is that blame laid on a woman?" 
asked the Pessimist. 

"Muley Abul Hassan, King of Granada, in 
1465 refused to pay tribute to Castile, and 
brought upon himself the enmity of the Span- 
iards," said Diego. 

"Hassan's Sultana was the Princess Ayxa 
la Horra, and her son Boabdil was heir to the 
throne. 

"Isabella de Solis, the Christian captive, 
became Sultana, and she had a son for whom 
she wished the throne, and incited the king 
against la Horra and Boabdil. 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. I 1 1 

" Hassan then confined them in the Tower 
of Comares, there, in the center, over the 
Hall of the Ambassadors. But the Sultana 
Ayxa was not one to stay a captive. The 
walls of the Tower of Comares are thick, and 
there are small windows barred with iron. On 
thiee sides of the tower are stone balconies 
below the windows, and from one of these 
balconies the Queen lowered Boabdil with 
scarfs knotted together, and he escaped with 
a few faithful servants to the mountains of 
Alpujarras. 

" There, later, he allied himself to Ferdi- 
nand; at least he promised tribute to the 
Spanish king, if he himself ever regained 
Granada. 

"Muley Hassan, however, was of a different 
nature. 'Tell your sovereign,' he cried, when 
ambassadors came to demand from him tri- 
bute,' that the Moorish kings who pay for 
their thrones are all dead! My mint coins 
only daggers and Damascus blades.' And so 
the bloody war went on. 

''The Moors must have won, or at least 
have held out much longer had it not been 
for the dissensions among themselves, caused 
by the rival factions at court, the friends of 
the two queens." 

"Has every tower here a legend?" I 
queried. 



112 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"Very nearly, sefiorita," the boy said, 
"and I know them all. Am I not a child of 
the fortress? Your Mr. Irving calls one of his 
guides 'a son of the Alhambra,' and that I 
am too, since my people have lived here and 
my ancestor was governor after the French 
left. That tower on the outer wall is the 
Torre de las Infantas. 

"Do you know the story of Zayde, Zora- 
ydc, and Zorahayda? The three sisters 
dwelled there with their nurse, the 'Discreet 
Kadiga,' in the reign of Muley Hassan, the 
Left-Handed. 

"A Christian bride whom he had captured 
bore him three daughters, and a wise man had 
prophesied that great trouble would come to 
him unless he guarded them carefully when 
the time came for them to marry. So Muley 
shut them up in the tower; but alas for his 
calculations! 

If she whom Love doth honor 

Be confined from the day, 
Set a thousand guards on her, 

Love will rind out the way. 

"The three maidens, looking from their 
window saw three Christian knights, captives, 
working in the ravine below, — saw and loved 
them; and the knights too, loved in return. 

"How it came about only the discreet 
Kadiga could ever tell, but two of the prin- 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. I 13 

cesses let themselves down from the window, 
with Kadiga, and escaped to Cordova with the 
knights. The youngest, her father's favorite, 
fair, timid Zorahayda, remained behind, and 
pined away and died. 

"They say she haunts the tower yet, sefl- 
orita," and Diego's voice fell. 

"All this is very interesting," said the Pes- 
simist, "but I fear we '11 meet the fate of 
Zorahayda if we do n't stop haunting these 
towers, and go to bed. Is there any legend 
about the Torre de la Vela?" 

"Not a legend exactly," said Diego, laugh- 
ing, "but any one who rings the bell from 
this tower on the night of the second of Jan- 
uary will marry within a year." 

"To-morrow we must see the interior of the 
palace. It is even more wonderful than my 
dreams!" I exclaimed. "Diego, you are in- 
troducing us to fairyland," and with a linger- 
ing look at the wonderful scene, still bathed in 
the waves of the moonlight, we left the lonely 
tower. 

"Was Boabdil such a wicked wretch, and 
did he imprison his wife and ill-treat his 
uncle?" I asked Diego, next morning, as we 
three rambled slowly along the green lanes 
toward the Puerto del Pino. 

"Oh, no, sefiorita. He was far better than 
many of the other kings. It is only that he 



114 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

was unsuccessful, and so all his good deeds 
were distorted. He was brave but tender- 
hearted, the latter such a rare virtue in his 
day as to be considered almost a vice. As 
for his uncle, he had conspired against Boab- 
dil, usurped his throne, threatened his life, 
and injured his kingdom. 

"What wonder that when he at last fell into 
the hands of his justly irate nephew, Boabdil 
cried, 'Call me no more El Zogoubi (the 
Unlucky), for mine enemy is delivered into 
my hands,' and he drove him from the 
walls." 

"He was lucky to murder his uncle," I 
said, flippantly. 

Diego looked inquiringly at me. Although 
he spoke excellent English the boy did not 
understand it sufficiently for irony, and ac- 
cepted all with a perfect Spanish gravity, irre- 
sistibly droll to one so inclined to laugh at 
everything from a pure overflow of good 
spirits, as was I. 

"Yes?" he said inquiringly, "The seflorita 
has some uncles then that she would like to 
murder?" 

"Tell us about Boabdil's wife," interposed 
the Pessimist, while I buried my face in a huge 
spray of lilac, with which the gardens were 
fragrant. 

"Unlike most of the Moorish kings Boabdil 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. I 15 

had only one wife, and her name was Mor- 
ayma. He loved her devotedly, and she 
remained with him through all his trials. 
When he abdicated the throne of Granada she 
was at his side. Her voice was raised in 
weeping as Boabdil el Chico left the fortress, 
saying to the Spanish chief, Don Gutierrezde 
Cardenes, who had been sent to take charge 
of the palace: ' Go, sefior, and take posses- 
sion of those fortresses in the name of the 
powerful sovereigns to whom God has been 
pleased to deliver them in reward of their 
great merits, and in punishment for the sins 
of the Moors. Morayma pressed close by 
him as he handed the keys of his kingdom to 
Ferdinand and Isabella, saying, 'These keys 
are the relics of the Arabian Empire in Spain; 
thine, O king, are our trophies, our kingdom, 
and our person. Such is the will of God. 
Receive them with the clemency thou hast 
promised.' Morayma pressed his hands to 
her lips when, pausing on the Alpuxarras the 
unfortunate king took his last lingering look 
upon the palace he had loved so dearly, for 
which he had fought so well. 

u 'Allah Aclibar /' he cried, 'God is great, 
but when did misfortune equal mine?' and, 
turning sadly from the spot, to this day 
called 'El ultimo suspiro del Moro ' (The 
last sigh of the Moor) he went to his exile in 



Ii6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

the valley of Purchena. There he tarried so 
long as Morayma lived, delaying his wished- 
for departure to Africa, and loving her to the 
last. He left his land, a melancholy being 
mourning more the death of his wife than the 
loss of his kingdom." 

"He was unlucky, poor Boabdil," I said, 
my spirit taking fire at the boy's earnestness. 
"People in those days seemed to consider it 
meritorious to die in a heap of ruins, killing 
all the innocent commoners, and refusing to 
yield to reasonable terms of peace. I think 
Boabdil was sensible, and showed genuine 
greatness, to be willing to save his people by 
abdicating and accepting Ferdinand's treaty. 
What became of him finally, Diego?" 

"He departed from Purchena, where he had 
lived in happiness some time, and went over 
to Fez where the Caliph received him kindly, 
and there he died years afterward, fighting in 
defense of the kingdom of those who had 
befriended him. 

"But there, seflorita, enough of Boabdil. I 
always talk too much when I speak of him. 
My heart is sore for him ever. That is 
the Palace of Charles V. How do you 
like it?" 

Diego watched us anxiously out of the cor- 
ner of his eye, as we looked at the huge 
Graeco-Roman pile in silence. 



FROM THE TORRE DE LA VELA. 1 17 

"I must say I don't like it, Diego. It 's 
an anachronism," I said. 

"I don't know anach-ronism," he said, 
"but you are right not to like it. It does not 
belong to our Alhambra. It is too bad to 
have the Spaniards spoil the Moorish palace. 
To make this ugly, rough house, the fairest 
parts of the Alhambra were torn down, the 
harem with all its matchless decorations, and 
many more buildings. 

Even the Emperor himself was sorry when 
he saw what had been done. What right had 
he here, he was half an Austrian?" and 
Diego's eyes flashed fire. "But, Sefiorita, 
now we enter the real Alhambra," as he led 
us to a door in a rough wall, half smothered 
in lilac bushes. 

"Close your eyes and let me say the 'Open 
Sesame' and then welcome to our Alhambra!" 



CHAPTER VIII. 



THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA. 




E said not a word as we 
stepped through the por- 
tal and stood within the 
Patio de la Alberca; only 
a quick, sharp, indrawing 
of the breath denoted 
our utter astonishment. 
Read, talk, think, dream of the Alhambra as 
you will, the reality is not only unlike your 
anticipations, it surpasses them. 

To be sure, as our eyes grew accustomed 
to the softened light streaming through arch 
and lattice, we saw the scene familiar through 
photograph and illustration. 

There were the slender pillars, light and 
marvelously ornamented, the galleries, the 
wood ceiling inlaid and carved and painted 
gold in Moorish times. 

There were the quaint doors, the agimez 
windows, the deep niches, and in the center 
the pond full of gold-fish, and bordered with 
myrtle carefully trimmed, and giving the 

118 



THE PALACE OF THE ALU AM BR A. 119 

court the name, dc los Arrayancs, (of the myr- 
tles). There were the stuccoed ornamenta- 
tions and scriptural inscriptions; but the won- 
der and surprise lay in the perfection of detail, 
the marvelous coloring, the almost optical 
illusions of loveliness. 

In the limpid waters of the pond were re- 
flected a myriad of lovely sights; the red 
towers of the fortress, the colonnades ending 
in slender arches, and the snowy clouds of the 
sky above — a whole world within the myrtle- 
bordered waters. On the walls were the 
words of Ibn-1-Ahmar, who returning vic- 
torious from battle, was greeted by the peo- 
ple with the cry "Galtb/*' (conqueror), to 
whom he replied, il Wa la ghaliba ilia Allah /" 
(There is no conqueror but God). 

In silence we went through the Court of 
Blessing, and reached the Sala de Embaja- 
dores (Hall of Ambassadors), and here we 
halted long, for its loftiness is beyond com- 
pare. It was the grand reception room of the 
Moorish kings, a square hall seventy-five feet 
high, with deep window recesses overlooking 
the Darro. From one of these Charles V. 
cried, as he saw the glories of the view, "Ill- 
fated the man who lost all this!" The hall 
(with the tower of which it is a part) is called 
dc Comarcs, because its workmanship was 
modeled after that at Comerach in Persia. 



120 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

But, grand as this hall is, it seems to belong 
to a different period from the rest of the 
palace; it is more solid, with a number of 
guipures on the walls and much inlaid wood, 
and despite thronging recollections of the days 
of old when the sa/a was peopled with Moor 
and knight, Christian embassy and Persian 
poet, a spirit in our feet seemed to urge us 
on, and through the lovely loggia, and the 
"Queen's Toilette" (so called because made 
by Bourbon Philip for his young wife, the 
Parmese Elizabeth), and past gardens, 
glimpses of which touched the senses as a 
benediction from Paradise, we entered the 
longed-for spot, the Mecca to travelers at 
the Alhambra — the far-famed Court of 
Lions. 

"Barmeja, the Red King of Granada, whom 
Don Pedro el Cruel murdered at Tablada, was 
succeeded by Mohammed, who built the 
Court of Lions in the year 1371," said 
Diego, but I interrupted quickly: 

"Oh, Diego, we want to know all about 
everything but do wait just a few moments 
until we take a little of it in!" as I looked 
about the patio in ecstacy. The first impres- 
sion one received was of pillars, pillars, pil- 
lars! Single pillars, carved, and fluted; 
double pillars, from which sprang horseshoe 
arches, delicate in outline, fragile in appear- 



THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA. 121 

ance, wonderful in coloring, cloud-like in hue; 
triple pillars, supporting the airy pavilions sur- 
mounted with conical roofs in all the hues of 
the rainbow. 

Lightness, brightness, beauty. Between 
the pillars were archways of an open-work 
like Mechlin lace, with the blue sky peering 
through, and doonvays leading into galleries 
each more marvelous than the last. 

In the center was the famous fountain, with 
its two alabaster basins supported by the lions 
in white marble, their manes cut like griffin 
scales. 

'What are those words around the lower 
basin?" asked the Pessimist at last. 

"A poem in praise of the founder of the 
court, written by Abu-Abdillah-Mohammed- 
Ebn-Yusef-Ebn-Zemric, a small sample of the 
poetic names of the day," said Diego. 

"Over that fountain the children of Abu 
Hasen were beheaded by order of their own 
father, all except Boabdil, and on a corner of 
the arcade stood fiery old Muza, when he 
answered Ferdinand's herald so sturdily: 

"'Does the Christian king think us grey- 
beards or women with distaffs, that we should 
yield with swords in our hands? Let him 
know that sweeter far to the African is a 
grave in the ruins of the Alhambra than the 
richest couch in his proudest palace!' " 



122 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"It 's all very famous, and I 've no doubt a 
great many extremely unpleasant things hap- 
pened here, but," objected the Pessimist, "it 
seems to me very absurd to have so many 
pillars that have nothing in particular to do, 
— nothing but just be pillars. One would do 
just as well to hold up an arch as three. It 's 
a waste of raw material. Then those lions 
are grotesque. They are almost sphinx-like, 
and fore-shortened until their legs are ridicu- 
lous." 

"You do not like it?" said Diego. "Then 
we will go to the Sala de los Abencerrages. " 
(Hall of the Abencerrages) and we entered 
through an open archway to the right of the 
Lions' Court. 

"Ah! it is the gem of the whole palace, 
this square hall with its walls of the finest 
raised work, inscriptions in Arabic, — 'Glory 
be to our lord Abu Abdillah!' and the verses 
from the poem of the 'Two Sisters.' " 

The roof, a cupola in form, is hung with 
stalactites in blues, browns, red, and gold. 
Through the octagonal windows at the top 
peered the blue of heaven, and as we gazed, a 
tiny bird, disturbed from its home on a carved 
window ledge, with a quick little twitter and 
whir of wings, flew across the hall and out, up 
to the sky above. 



THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA. 123 

" 'The little birds flew east, 
And the little birds flew west, 
And I smiled to think God's greatness 
Flows around our incompleteness, 
Round our restlessness, his rest.'" 

I quoted. 

"The restlessness of the world does not 
seem to strike this quiet spot. It did in the 
times of the Abencerrages, for here it was that 
Muley Hassan, father of Boabdil, jealous of 
his wife's attachment to one of the Abencer- 
rages, invited thirty-eight of them to a ban- 
quet, and slew them all," I said. 

"No, not all, for one escaped," corrected 
Diego, "and there is a story about his family 
which is a curious one. He was found to be 
innocent, and permitted to live in Granada on 
condition that if he had sons they should be 
educated away from the court. 

"Abendaraez was the only son of the Aben- 
cerrage, and he was sent to the castle of Cer- 
tama to be brought up in ignorance of his 
birth, by a friend of his father. This friend 
— the Alcaide — had one daughter Xarisa, with 
whom Abendaraez was brought up, but when 
he reached manhood he discovered that he 
was not her brother, and declared himself her 
lover. 

"In fear of the Alcaide they married in 
secret; the Alcaide suspecting them, however, 



124 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

they were separated, vowing eternal con- 
stancy. At length Xarisa, from her captivity 
in the fortress at Coyn, managed to send 
Abendaraez word that her father would be 
away at a certain time. He hastened to see 
her, but on the road was captured by six 
cavaliers, commanded by Roderigo de Nar- 
vaez, Alcaide of Antequerra. 

"To him the Moor told his tale, and Don 
Roderigo gave him permission to keep his 
tryst with Xarisa, provided he would return 
and enter captivity again, which Abendaraez 
readily promised. He went to Coyn, saw his 
wife, and she returned with him at the expira- 
tion of his furlough. 

" 'Behold, Alcaide, how an Abencerrage 
keeps his word!' said the Moor proudly. 'I 
promised thee a captive, and I bring thee 
two. This is my wife. Receive us as thine 
own, for I trust my life and honor to thine 
hands.' Don Roderigo was much delighted 
at the honor of Abendaraez, and gave him 
the castle of Alora in which to dwell until for- 
given by the father of Xarisa. The lovers 
were taken into favor at the court of Granada, 
and some of the best families in Spain boast 
the blood of the Abencerrage in their veins." 
"Are those supposed to be blood stains or 
rust on the floor?" asked the Pessimist. 

"Blood, of course. You 've no imagination 



THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA. 125 

at all," I exclaimed. "It 's a great deal nicer 
to be born with a spirit of credulity like mine. 
I believe there's Scotch blood in you, for it 
takes you forever to accept a statement. 
Where do we go now, Diego?" 

"To see the Hall of the Sisters, so called 
from the two equal-sized slabs in the pave- 
ment, which are the sisters; then we have a 
glimpse of the Hall of Justice, where there 
are the famous paintings, the only pictures of 
living things in the whole palace. 

"They are said to be painted on animal 
skins, and coated with gypsum to receive the 
paint. They could not have been Moorish, 
for the Moors were never permitted, accord- 
ing to the Koran, to represent living creatures. 
It will always be a mystery how they 
came here, but the best authorities say they 
were done by some Christian renegade, and 
they are portraits of Moorish judges, land- 
scapes filled with birds and beasts, and chival- 
ric scenes. 

"Then you must see the great Alhambra 
vase, enameled in blue and gold, which was 
discovered full of gold, and on which the in- 
scription, 'Eternal Salvation,' is repeated over 
and over again. 

"There is the wall where all the great peo- 
ple have inscribed their names, — Byron, Cha- 
teaubriand, and Victor Hugo. Then we will 



126 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

go to the Sultan's Baths, and the chamber of 
secrets, where at one end, by placing your ear 
to an opening in the wall, you can hear every 
word said at the other end of the room." 

1 'Diego!" I cried in despair, "let us see 
all these another day, but now show us some 
quiet place where we can sit down and let 
you tell us some more legends. My eyes can 
look at nothing more." 

"Ah, sefiorita!" the boy exclaimed, "I 
think you begin to love my Alhambra a little, 
and to see the wonder of it. Let me take 
you to the gem of it all, the Patio de Lin- 
daraja," and he led us through the corridors 
into the mirador of the Sultana, where the 
agitnez windows look out into the verdant 
patio, and at last we sat down in the famous 
garden, and the luxuriousness of the tropics 
stole over our senses. 

Diego sat on the edge of the fountain which 
raised its shell-like basin in the center of the 
garden, surrounded by straight cedar trees, 
box-bordered walks, and orange trees, bloom- 
ing and heavy with the ripe fruit. 

Diego was a picturesque creature. There 
are few things more beautiful than a Spanish 
boy of eighteen. As men, Spaniards seem 
too small, and scarcely sturdy enough, 
(though some of them are superb), but a boy 
has just that charm of grace and sweetness 



THE PALACE OF THE AL HAM BRA. 127 

which is very attractive. Diego had brown 
curly hair, a face of great purity and sweet- 
ness, blue eyes, almost black, with heavily 
drooping lids, and a gravity of demeanor, lit 
up by occasional glimpses of gayety, very 
charming. He wore a correct suit of light 
clothes, English in cut, — but Spanish blood 
will tell, and he had a gay necktie, a caballcro 
cloak, black, lined in scarlet, which was flung 
over one shoulder, while his sombrero was tied 
with brilliant cord and tassel. 

"Are you really Spanish, Diego? You are 
so fair. Our idea of a Spaniard is that he 
must be as black as the ace of spades," I said. 

Diego laughed, showing his rows of even 
white teeth, as strong and white as a dog's. 

''There are very many kinds of Spaniards," 
he said. "They are all the way from black 
to white. I am Andalucian, and sometimes 
they are blondes like yourself, sefiorita." 

At this I smiled. I never saw a genuine 
blonde in Andalucia, but Diego was entirely 
too polite to leave me out. 

"Do you know why we are called Anda- 
lucian?" he went on. 

"No; another story; do tell us," I cried. 

"All the saints in heaven had countries but 
Santa Lucia, and she was unhappy. Now, 
Santiago is very kind-hearted, and also rather 
busy, for Spain is a great country, and one 



128 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

which takes a good deal of looking after; so 
he said to her: 'Santa Lucia, go down to my 
country and choose any part of it you want, 
and you may have it, and — ' he added under 
his breath — 'I '11 have quite enough to do to 
look -after the rest of my Spaniards!' So 
Lucia started, and as she came to a very fertile 
spot, round which were snowy mountains, a 
voice seemed to say to her — 'Anda, Lucia!' 
(Go, Lucia!) so there she went, and the 
province is called Andalucia until this very 
day." 

"More legends, Diego," I cried, "even the 
Pessimist likes to hear them." 

"Yes," she said, "so they are not blood- 
curdling, like yours. I like them very well," 
and we settled ourselves for a comfortable 
listen, more enticing at times than a comfort- 
able chat. 

"I will tell you the legend of the flowers," 
said the boy, throwing aside his hat, and bar- 
ing his open forehead to the breeze. 

"Once, long, long ago, there lived in the 
Alhambra, a very wise king, Ben Jusef Om- 
reyh, by name, and he had but one child, a 
daughter, Hafiza, whom he loved as his own 
soul. Hafiza was of marvelous beauty, with 
liquid dark eyes gazing wistfully from beneath 
dark lashes, lips like a scarlet pomegranate 
blossom, cheeks like the first blush of dawn 



THE PALACE OF THE AL HAM BRA, 129 

on the white clouds, and hair soft and lone, 
and dark as ni^ht. 

'•Innocent she was as she was fair, and the 
old king loved her all the more because she 
was the only child of his favorite Sultana, lono- 
since dead. 

•'The fairest gardens of the Alhambra were 
kept for the young Hafiza, and there she grew 
from childhood up to womanhood, amidst her 
slaves, nor knew she aught of the world or of 
men. so carefully shielded was she there in the 
garden dc las Rosas. 

•My father,' said she one day, springing 
to his side, as the garden door swung to be- 
hind him, 'grant me a wish to-day,' and she 
flung aside her white kaik t and stood by him 
in ail the loveliness of her fresh girlhood. 

What is thy boon, Hafiza?' asked the 
old king, as with proud and tender eyes he 
gazed upon her, and gently stroked the dark- 
hair from her temples. 

Just beyond my garden wall I see an- 
other garden, and in it the flowers seem so 
rare I fain would pluck them. It is not that 
my own are not as beautiful, dear father, but 
only that I weary of them, and long for thine. 
There, close beside the marble fountain's rim 
I -ee a rose, so red in hue, with perfume so 
far-reaching that even here it haunts my senses, 
and makes me feel as if the Peris who wait at 



130 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

the very gates of Paradise must have brought 
it hither. I long to pluck that rose, king, 
my father, and call it mine/ and Hafiza laid 
both hands caressingly upon the stern king's 
arms, and looked beseechingly into his face. 

"As no one else dared, so did Hafiza to El 
Rcy, for he loved her dearly, the stern old 
king. 

"He looked sadly into the sweet face raised 
to his, then led her to a balcony which over- 
hung the garden. 

" 'Show me thy rose, my child,' he said. 

" 'There it is,' she cried, pointing with a 
slender finger, its nail dyed with henna. 
'There, in the glorious sunlight, and some- 
thing stirs within my breast, and whispers, 
"Dear Princess, I have bloomed for you. 
Ah, pluck me, and wear me on your breast." ' 

" 'Look closely, child, and tell me what 
thou seest, my little one, there near to the 
red. red rose,' said the king, a shadow deep- 
ening on his brow. 

" 'Beside the rose-tree, trailing its fringed 
blossoms o'er the fountain's brim, and reflect- 
ing their purple hues within the water, its 
vines clinging close about the red rose stem, 
I see another flower, strange in form, yet 
beautiful, and that, too, I would pluck. 

" 'Well-nigh hidden by the leaves and vines, 
yet twined with their tendrils, there grows a 



THE PALACE OF THE ALU AM BRA. 131 

third sweet flower, a tiny blossom of palest 
pink, in its center* one deep scarlet spot. It 
has a faint perfume, yet 'tis sweet. It, too, 
seems to speak to me and say, "Dear 
Princess, I live for you. Wear me on your 
brow, I pray." May I have these flowers, 
dear, my father?' 

" 'Tell me yet again, what else thou seest, 
beside the fountain, my Hafiza, ' said the 
king. 

" 'Ah! a flower so fair, I scarcely dared to 
hope for it,' she cried. 'It is strong and 
brave, one blossom upon a single stem, with- 
out the grace of the rose, the allurement of 
the purple fringed flower, or the delicacy of 
the pink one. 

" 'It has a perfume of such penetrating 
sweetness that its scent haunts me day and 
night. It is a pure, calm white, yet in its 
depths, like a beam of imprisoned sunlight, lies 
a heart of gold, and this flower I long for most 
of all, O great, good king, my father.' 

"The old king sighed again, yet smiled as 
well, and said : 

" 'Each flower has a meaning, my little 
one. Know then, that the red, red rose thou 
will'st to pluck, though thorns there be upon 
its stem, is from all ages the fair flower of 
love, and twined about it is the purple pas- 
sion-flower. There, close allied to both, is 



132 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPA IX. 

the sweet, pink cyclamen, which has the crim- 
son stain within its heart for pain — and last of 
all, my child Hafiza, is the Eastern lily with 
the golden heart, which is for self-forgetful- 
ness. It ever comes with a true love. 

" 'Yes, my child, thou shalt have thy 
flowers, for well I see thou art a child no 
longer, but hast come to maidenhood.' 

"So then the king sent Hafiza into the gar- 
den, and she flitted about, plucking the flow- 
ers and chasing the butterflies and gay dragon- 
flies, singing merrily. 

"And as she went it chanced that there came 
to seek the king a stranger, a noble youth, or* 
an embassy from far Castile, and as he sav 
Hafiza there amidst the flowers, herself th 
fairest flower of all, his heart within him guv 
a sudden bound. And, as her eyes met his 
within their liquid depths sprang up a swi' : 
fire, and when the stranger knight passed 
Hafiza dropped her rose, which he quickl ■ 
took, and hid within his breast. And whc. 
his audience with the king was over, long 
dallied he by the Xenil, and sometimes hasty 
glimpses had he of the fair young princess, 
and many wore the stolen glances which 
passed between them. 

"At last, emboldened by his love — which 
ever makes the heart of man as bold to other 
men as it is timid to the maid he loves — he 



THE PALACE OF THE ALHAMBRA. 133 

asked of the old king, his daughter's hand. 
Then the king called Hafiza to him, in the pres- 
ence of the stranger knight, and said to her; 

14 'Will my daughter have the rose which 
brings with it the passion flower and the 
cyclamen?' And the princess, looking from 
the sad, kind eyes of her father to the eager, 
glowing ones of the stranger knight, buried 
her head upon her father's breast, whispering 
softly, with shy maiden blushes, 'Yes, my 
father, an you will.' 

44 'Then, see thou hast the lily, too, my 
child,' said the wise old king, as he placed her 
hand within her lover's own. So they were 
married, and the legends say that many were 
the sorrows of their life, and yet Hafiza was a 
true and faithful wife always unto Don Juan 
de Sanchez, and bore her trials with a gra- 
cious calm, which made her like a perfect lily. 
Her husband loved her ever, and when she 
died, he built for her a mighty tomb, and on 
it laid her effigy in marble, a lily in her hand, 
and underneath the words — 'The Eastern Lily 
blossoms now in Paradise.' " 

"Oh! Diego, what a charming tale!" I 
exclaimed. "Is it a real legend, or your 
own?" but the boy only laughed and said: 

"These are the gardens; why should it not 
be true?" as we wended our way through the 
gardens and lanes homeward. 



CHAPTER IX. 



THE GEXERALIFE. 



a^g^T^N aaHg 




UN DAY morning, Pessi- 
mist, and I wonder what 
Sunday is like in Gran- 
ada," I said as we awoke, 
and threw open our lat- 
ticed casement to let the 



morning sun enter. 



"I hope it will be more quiet than Sunday 
in Seville," she replied. "Such a perform- 
ance as they had on Easter Sunday! It 's all 
very fine to have church fcstas, but the Se- 
villians are too noisy about them to suit me." 

"Well, we 're to go to High Mass with 
Diego, and see the cathedral at the same 
time, so it behooves us to get our breakfast," 
I said. 

Soon we were walking down the elm-bor- 
dered walks, and past the fountain of Charles 
V., made of stone from the Sierra Nevada, 
with three crowned genii to represent the 
Darro, Xenil, and Beiro, which stream through 
the Vega. 

i34 



THE GENERALIFE. 135 

The town of Granada is mournful and quiet, 
and little like the gay Granada of the Moors. 

"It does not seem as if it could be the city 
of poem and romance," I said. 

" Over all the rest supreme, 
The star of stars, the cynosure, 
The artist's and the poet's theme, 
The young man's vision, the old man's dream — 
Granada by its winding stream, 
The city of the Moor. 
And there, the Alhambra still recalls 
Aladdin's palace of delight, 
"Allah il Allah," thro' its halls 
Whispers the fountain as it falls; 
The Darro darts beneath its walls 
The hills with snow are white. 
The Vega clift by the Xenil, 
The fascination and allure 
Of the sweet landscape chains the will; 
The traveler lingers on the hill, 
His parted lips are breathing still 
The last sigh of the Moor." 

'Where did Cano, the painter, live, 
Diego?" asked the Pessimist. 

'We do not know just where, sefiorita, 
but the cathedral has some of his paintings in 
the high chapel. He had a curious life. 
When he was in Madrid he was a great favor- 
ite, and the instructor of the young prince, but 
his chances were all ruined by the suspicion 
that he had murdered his wife. He was 
seized and tortured to make him confess his 
guilt, but his right hand was saved by the 



I3 6 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

king, that he might be able to paint if he sur- 
vived. 

"As he endured the torture without a 
groan, he was acquitted, and he retired to his 
native city, Granada. Here he became a 
priest, and spent the last of his life in dec- 
orating and carving the cathedral, dying in 
extreme poverty, as he gave his all to the 
poor." 

"It seems to have been the fashion in those 
times to make a good death whatever had 
been the life. Is that the cathedral?" I 
asked. 

"Yes, senorita. It does not show very 
well, because it is so cramped in with houses, 
but the interior is very beautiful." 

We entered softly, and Diego procured 
some little stools for us, for few of the foreign 
churches have seats, and we gazed about in 
wonder until the service began. How unlike 
many gaudily decorated churches was this 
simple and noble interior, with massive pil- 
lars, fine nave, huge dome-like roof, painted 
in white and gold, and high altar with kneel- 
ing figures of Ferdinand and Isabella! Then 
the notes of the wonderful organ reverberated 
through the building, and the peasants 
thronged the aisles. 

What a motley array there was! Lovely 
Spanish women, in black frocks and mantillas — 



THE GENERALIFE. 137 

the church dress of the noble Spaniards — sat 
by Andalucian peasants in smart attire, while 
haughty old Dons were next to Cook's tour- 
ists. When the service was over we went to 
the Chapel Royal, where are the tombs of the 
Catholic kings. 

"This was built by order of Ferdinand and 
Isabella, and here they are buried, and Juana 
and Philip also/' said Diego. "We think 
Queen Isabella was very beautiful." 

"She was," I answered, as we looked at the 
fair and gentle face sculptured in marble, which 
looks as if she had been, as Bacon says she 
was, "one of the most faultless characters of 
history, and one of the purest sovereigns that 
ever graced a throne." 

"But, I do n't like tombs," said the Pessi- 
mist, "and I want to see La Cartuja.' 

'We are going to drive over there now," I 
said, for I had seen lately that the Pessimist 
was restive under the legends, and seemed 
to be longing for more worlds to conquer. 

So we drove out to the convent, now sup- 
pressed. It was founded by the Carthusians 
on land given them by Gonzalo de Cordova, el 
gran Capitan. It is a quaint white pile; the 
approach to it is through narrow streets, with 
countless beggars swarming after one, and 
demanding money. 

" Sefwrita una peseta!" they screamed, 



138 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

throwing flowers into the carriage, and look- 
ing so winsome and gay through all their dirt, 
that we had to give them something, and 
searched our pockets for coppers. I had noth- 
ing but a ten cent silver piece, and started to 
throw it to the prettiest child, when Diego, 
stayed my hand with horror. 

"Sefiorita!" he exclaimed. "You would 
make them nuisances forever to all A mericanas! 
See — this will please them," and he scattered 
a handful of coppers. How they scampered 
and called down blessings upon us, and then 
ran off in glee to show their spoils! 

Far in the distance was the bridge of Pinos, 
a slender arch over the Xenil, but not so slen- 
der as that thread upon which hung the des- 
tinies of the New World. Columbus had 
been at the court of Granada, beseeching the 
queen to help him in his project, but rode 
away — disheartened. Here, on the bridge, he 
paused a moment. 

"Alas!" he sighed, "I must seek help at 
the court of France or of England; Spain will 
do nothing for me," and he looked back 
regretfully upon the fair town, from Vega to 
Alhambra bathed in sunlight and beauty. 

His kind, keen face was furrowed deep with 
care, and yet the steadfast purpose of one who 
believes in his own aim glowed in his eyes. 

What was that cloud of dust which arose 



THE GEXERALIFE. I 39 

upon the road, and came nearer and nearer. 
Ah! Fate was kind, and pausing on the 
Pinos Bridge, Columbus heard the messenger 
of the queen, riding full tilt, cry out, "Hold! 
The queen has sent me. She bids you return 
to Granada," and thus the destinies of the 
New World were decided. 

The interior of La Cartuja is wonderful, for 
seldom does one see such marbles in shades 
of green, red and gold, all from the sierras; 
and such inlaid work of tortoise-shell and por- 
celain, nor such horrible pictures as those of 
the Carthusian martyrs, executed in England 
during the reign of Henry VIII. 

Near La Cartuja is the quaint old church of 
San Geronimo, where Captain Gonzalo de 
Cordova is buried. 

"What a splendid old Bayard he was, 
Diego," I said, as we gazed at the church, 
begun by the king in honor of El Gran Capi- 
tan, and completed by his widow, and which 
is one of the finest examples of the Gothic in 
Spain. 

"Ah, sefiorita! If one could only be a sol- 
dier, as he was, one would not mind serving 
in the army. He was magnificent! Think 
of him when the Biscayans leveled their pikes 
at his breast, mutinied and demanded more 
pay. All he said was: 

"'Higher, men! Raise your weapons 



14° WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

higher, lest they prick El Gran Capitan!' 
Think of his being the one to negotiate with 
Boabdil for Granada, of his gaining Naples, 
sending the French from Italy, and taking 
Zante from the Turks! Oh to have served 
under him! He was so kind, so knightly, so 
brave, so stern to the wicked, such a comrade 
to the good. He said he 'd rather step for- 
ward into his grave than make one backward 
step on the field of battle to save his life. No 
wonder the inscription here reads: 

" 'Gonzalo Ferdinando de Cordova, His- 
panorum duci, Gallorum ac Turcorum Terrori.' 

"Oh to have lived then with the second 
Cid, and to have served under him!" and the 
boy's delicate face glowed, and his eyes 
gleamed. The blood of fighting ancestry 
coursed in his veins, and he looked like a 
young Saint George. 

"Why, Diego! Why are you not in the 
army, if you are such a fighter?" I asked. 

His face clouded and fell. 

"Oh, now, it is very different. Next year 
it is my time to serve, and if I get a low num- 
ber when the lot is drawn I shall buya/w- 
miso. The army is a hard school, sefiorita. 
The pay is but three of your cents a day, and 
the discipline is frightful for the private. He 
cannot marry, for he is allowed no rations for 
his family, and his mess is very poor. 



THE GENBRALIFB. 141 

"If a soldier is drunk once, he has two 
months in prison, and there he gets idle and 
lazy. He cannot go to church or to work. 
He is shut up with wicked men, and even if 
he is a good country lad, he soon grows 
wicked like the others. 

"Then he must serve in The Islands (Cuba 
and the Filipinas) and there he has a fever, 
or is murdered by the negroes. The officers 
are better, but I will not serve if I can get my 
pcrmiso. It is not all gay uniforms, and 
cocked hats, and brass buttons, and the 
leaders, although brave men, are not all like 
El Gran C a pit an." 

As we drove home Diego pointed out to us 
the barracks, and on the training green before 
the rough fortress-like walls, there were a 
large number of soldiers taking the oath. 

"What do they do, Diego?" I asked, as 
we saw the long file of men slowly mov- 
ing forward, while bands played the royal 
march. 

"They each must pass under the flag," he 
said. 

"See, there in the center is the standard- 
bearer holding the Spanish flag, and opposite, 
a captain raises a drawn sword. Each new 
recruit must pass between the two, swearing to 
wield the sword and defend the flag with the 
last drop of his blood." 



142 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"Are Spaniards patriotic?" asked the Pes- 
simist. 

"I think I don't quite know what 'patri- 
otic ' is," said Diego, "but if you mean do 
they love their country, it is more that they 
love their own place. They say, 'I am Cata- 
lan,' 'I am Andalucian,' more than, 'I am a 
Spaniard.' 

"Very much as I revel in being a Hoosier, " 
I said, as we reached the hotel. 

The next thing on our programme was a 
ramble to the Generalife, and Diego took us 
there on an afternoon unrivaled in the annals 
of beautiful weather. 

The villa belongs to the Marquis de Cam- 
potejar, who acquired it by marriage, Philip 
V. having made it a perpetual inheritance to 
the house of Granada and Venegas. 

A permit is required for entrance, but Diego 
always had permission to go even-where, and 
indeed the boy's smile ought to prevail upon 
Saint Peter to unlock the gate of heaven. 

"Tell us about the Generalife, Diego," the 
Pessimist asked as we passed the gate, and 
through the magnificent avenue of cypresses 
which leads to the palace. 

"Abu-1-Walid built it in the 'year of the 
great victory of Religion ' or 13 19, and it was 
called the Garden of the Dance. Tt is smaller 
than the Alhambra, but before it was ruined 



THE GENERALIFE. 143 

with white-wash, was even more perfect as to 
its decorations," he said, ringing the bell as 
we entered the patio. 

"How those old Moors understood water! 
They must have had sea-kings or mermaids for 
ancestors, for they seem always to have known 
just the right way to procure water, and the 
most beautiful ways of using it," I exclaimed 
as we stood looking through the long, narrow 
patio. 

The water lay like a silver thread through 
the center of the court, reflecting the gal- 
lery's slender arches, and the railed balconies 
of the palace, the shrubs and vines and the 
cloudless sky above; while through the grated 
doorway at the other end we caught a lovely 
glimpse of perfect blue, framed by the arched 
corridor. 

Diego was whispering earnestly to the port- 
ress, and as I spoke, he came toward us 
smiling. 

"Come to the other end of the patio," he 
said, "and I will show you something that 
few strangers see," and we followed him curi- 
ously, and stood waiting, noticing the sunlight 
sparkle on the water, turning it to silver. 

"I would give a good deal to see the fount- 
ains play, Diego," I said; and he smiled, for 
at that instant there sprang into the air 
showers of silvery spray, from each side of the 



H4 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

canal, the slender jets rising high in single 
streams, then mingling with each other, and 
falling like mist, while the gold-fishes flashed 
like imprisoned sunlight in the water. 

"Oh, how lovely!" was all we could say, 
while Diego fairly danced at our delight. 

"They play only three times a year," he 
said, "but I have begged Carmen to turn them 
on for you, so you can say you have seen the 
fountains of the Generalife, senorita." 

Then, as we thanked him earnestly, he con- 
tinued : 

4 T like to show you everything, senorita, 
because you feci it all, and you do not laugh 
at the stories of the places that I love so well. 
So many Americans smile at everything. We 
call them often, 'The men who laugh, and be- 
lieve nothing,' but you are more Andalucian 
with your eyes and hair, and you and your 
friend, I think, love my country." 

"Indeed we do, Diego," I cried; and we 
wandered through the lovely gardens, saw 
terrace after terrace of beauty, fountains, 
statues, box-bordered walks, old cypress trees, 
orange and lemon trees in bloom, and the 
pomegranate, from which Granada is named. 
There was a wilderness of flowers, myrtles, 
heliotropes, primulas, wall-flowers, violets,' 
fleurs-de-lis — purple, yellow and white — callas 
and wonderful roses, and over all the sky of 



THE GENERALIFE. 1 45 

that brilliant turquoise hue of which Byron 

says that it was 

" So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven." 

Many were the stories Diego told us of 
that Fatima, wife of Muley Hassan, who was 
here found dallying with one of the Abencer- 
rages, and condemned to death unless she 
could find four knights to fight for her. 
There, from that tower, she watched and 
waited until the messenger she had sent for 
aid might return; watched and waited in 
vain for days, until she was to be burned at 
the stern king's command; but at the very 
last, as she well-nigh despaired, she saw a 
group of horsemen ford the stream, dash up 
the hill-side, and clang for admission at the 
palace gates. Her champions had come; and 
well they fought the Moorish knights, and van- 
quished them, and saved Fatima; and I dare- 
say, old Muley Hassan wished often that he 
had burned her after all, for with all her 
beauty and witchery, she was a troublesome 
captive. 

We wandered slowly homeward, our hands 
laden with flowers, for Diego spoiled the fair- 
est gardens for us; and as we reached the 
Concela de Fuentepefia, a sudden storm arose, 
a pelting rain which seemed to come from a 
crack in the blue sky, and we were driven for 



146 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

shelter into a neighboring cottage, Diego as- 
suring us of welcome. It was a quaint little 
place, a narrow, white-washed cottage, with 
tiled roof, low rafters, and stone-paved floor. 
The peasant and his wife were at home, and 
the pretty children ran to us in a friendly way, 
seeming to have no idea of begging, and sur- 
prised when we gave them coppers. 

The room contained a table, some chairs, a 
stove, and beyond, an alcove where all slept 
on two rough beds. The mother, a pretty, 
blackeyed peasant woman in dark skirt, white 
camisa and scarlet jacket, insisted upon light- 
ing coals in a brascro to dry our feet, and 
treated us with a simple hospitality that was 
very beautiful. 

On the wall was a crucifix — a beautiful 
piece of carving — with some bright pictures of 
the saints, while a tiny lamp burned before a 
statue of the Blessed Virgin. 

A girl sat spinning with an old-fash- 
ioned wheel, and the madre showed us, with 
great pride, the linen she had made for her 
daughter's bridal, which was to be after Corpus 
Christi. As the rain ceased as suddenly as it 
had begun, and we arose to go, all showered 
upon us blessings and entreaties to come again, 
and the father of the family followed us to the 
door, and completely paralyzed the Pessimist 
by kissing her hand with the air of a courtier. 



THE GENERALTFE. 147 

As we escaped, smiling, I exclaimed: 

"I wonder why we never see common peo- 
ple in our own country so simple and natural." 

"It 's because they 're all trying to be 
something different," said the Pessimist, "in- 
stead of being content to be the very best 
they can in their own station." 

"The reason you never see good Spaniards 
in America," said Diego, sagely, "is because 
only the discontented ones go there, and if a 
man is discontented at home he 's likely to be 
so every place else." 

" 'A Daniel come to judgment,' ' I ex- 
claimed. " 'Out of the mouths of babes, 
etc' Where did you learn your wisdom, 
Diego mio f" 

"The senorita laughs now," said the boy, 
laughing gayly himself. 

That night, as I leaned from my balcony in 
the moonlight, and watched the white towers 
of the Generalife, I lapsed into verse. 

Now, as a rule, I do n't think much of my 
poetic effusions, but this was very fine. I 
apostrophized the Spirit of the Past, and re- 
quested it to return and do something, I 
was n't quite sure what. 

In an evil moment I showed these chaste 
lines to the Pessimist, with the result that 
they are lost to the lyrics of the ages. 

Her practical mind saw no reason for ad- 



14 s WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

dressing any such misty individual as that I 
referred to, when she herself was there want- 
ing to be talked to and to find out by what 
route we were going to Cordova. 

Moreover, she thought it highly improper 
to be hankering after harems and their in- 
mates, and gave it as her final opinion that 
traveling in Spain bade fair to have a very 
deteriorating effect upon my character. 

It was all very well for Diego, a poor boy 
who had been brought up in a foreign land, 
and who had never seen even a cable car or 
anything modern. He had almost a right to 
believe in all the queer stories which he told. 
Indeed, he would be abnormal if he did n't. 
But as for wc — oh, well! she supposed it was 
only what she should have expected. 

The Pessimist is not always consistent, but 
that is a small matter, for people who are may 
become tiresome as traveling companions. 
So, I forgave her the tirade, remembering 
how angelically she had yielded to all my 
whims, and consoled myself by thinking that 
my poetry was over her head. 

I arranged to her satisfaction as to the train 
which was to bear us away from our beloved 
Granada, and then said : 

"We are to have a serenade to-night, Pessi- 
mist. Diego and a friend of his are coming 
with mandolin and guitar to play Spanish airs 



THE GENERALIFE. 149 

under our window. Hark! I hear them now. 
Yes," as I ran to the window and peeped 
out, li l see a figure. Now, listen!" ex- 
citedly. 

We listened and we heard, and after the 
first glance at the Pessimist's face, I sat down 
and laughed until I could have cried; for the 
figure which I had mistaken for that of our 
boyish cavalier was four-footed, and the music 
which greeted our ears was nothing more nor 
less than an ear-splitting bray from an inno- 
cent ass, who had paused a moment to give 
vent to his feelings before climbing the hill. 

"I have always thought," said the Pessi- 
mist severely, when I stopped laughing from 
sheer exhaustion and sat looking at her, "that 
the Spanish cavalier beneath his lady's case- 
ment was a donkey. I am glad to be proved 
in the right." But, as she spoke, there came 
our real serenade, and the tinkle of that man- 
dolin and guitar in the sweet night air, laden 
with flower scents and the fresh earthy smell 
of the tropics, made our last evening in Gran- 
ada more like fairyland than anything else. 

"Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed 

on the water, 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining 

the arches, 
Down through whose vaults it fell as thro' chinks in a 

ruin, 
Dreamlike and indistinct and strange were all things 

around them." 



15° WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

" Los cipresos de tu casa 
Estan vestidos de luto, 
Y es porque no tienen flores, 
Que oprecerte por tributo," 

sang the voices, and the dreamy music min- 
gled with our memories of long ago, and 
seemed to bear us upon its lyrical wings to 
the far-away times when all was beauty and 
minstrelsy and song. As the sweet boyish 
voices, mingling with the music of the stir- 
ring Marcha Real, died away in the distance, I 
sank to rest, murmuring even in dreams: 
"Viva, Espafta! Viva Andalucia!" 



CHAPTER X. 

LEGENDS BY THE WAY. 




HE Pessimist and I were 
desolccs at leaving Diego, 
for the boy had proved 
such a delightful com- 
panion that we felt as 
though a real friend had 
been torn from us, as the 
train sped away from the station, and we left 
him on the platform. 

"Adios! Adios! sefioritas!" had been his 
cry as he kissed our hands, and our last 
glimpse of him, as we leaned far out of the 
carriage window, was of the knightly figure in 
its huge cape, outlined against the blue sky, 
his sombrero pressed low upon his forehead, as 
he watched the train leave the station. 

We were still in Andalucia, garden of the 
gods. The Spanish fcrro-carril has to the 
full extent the national trait of indolent calm, 
and generally arrives manana, mauana, and we 
crawled through fields of wheat, with palms, 
citron trees, sugar cane and orange groves. 

151 



152 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

We were in no hurry, and were quite will- 
ing to alight at every station, and pluck flow- 
ers and chat with the peasants, for the spirit 
of Andalucia had infused itself into our veins, 
and we felt light-hearted and lazy. 

''Tell me about the Vega," said my friend, 
as Granada faded from our view. 

"The Spanish king beleaguered Santa Fe," 
I said. 

'"Full many a duke and count was there, the noblest in 

the land, 
And captains bold, that swelled the host of good King 

Ferdinand, 
For they were men of valor bold and now had drawn the 

sword, 
To win Granada's kingdom fair in battle for their lord.* 

"One morning at nine o'clock, so the poem 
of Perez de Hitasays, a Moor appeared, riding 
a black charger, and in red, white and blue 
petticoats (but underneath all these vest- 
ments, 'a coat of armor true'), carrying a 
double-headed lance and a buckler of buffalo 
hide. He gave a very cordial invitation to any 
knight to come and perch upon the end of his 
lance. 

'"Come one, come two, come three or four, it matters not 

a jot, 
Or let the captain of the youths, he is a man of note, 
Let Count de Cabra sally forth (in war a potent name), 
Or Gonzalo Fernandez, whom Cordova doth claim.' 

"The cavaliers all were anxious to avail 
themselves of the Moor's kind invitation, but 





Tin- I':i .; ; i STOOD OW A GAINS! fHl SKY. 



LEGENDS BT THE WAT. 153 

a youth named Garcilaso arose, and begged 
that he might go. 

"Now the Spanish youth of 1490, seems to 
have been quite similar to the youth of the 
present day, for when he was told he was too 
young, and must wait till he was older, Gar- 
cilaso retired to his tent and sulked. How- 
ever, he got over his temper, disguised him- 
self, and went out secretly to meet the Moor, 
assuring him he was sent by the king. 

"The Moor refused to do battle with a 
babe, saying: 

" 'I am not wont, methinks, to take the field with beard- 
less boys, 

Return, rash lad, and tell the king to send a better 
choice.' 

"At this the young man's temper com- 
pletely got the better of him, and he rushed 
at the Moor and 'fought with valor true,' van- 
quishing the enemy, and returning to the 
camp, with the head of his adversary grinning 
at his saddle bow, — one of the pleasing decora- 
tions of the day. 

" ' He knelt before the King and Queen, they gave him 

honor meet, 
And marvelled much that such a youth should do so 

grand a feat, 
'Twas in Granada's Vega that thus he won his fame, 
And Garcilaso de la Vega thereafter was his name.' 

"This Garcilaso de la Vega was the ances- 
tor of the poet and scholar. The camp seems 



154 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

to have been a good school for Spanish poetry, 
and the soldier poet was born in Toledo in 
1503; at the age of seventeen was sent to 
court, where he was made a contino or one of a 
guard of a hundred nobles, a number of whom 
were continually about the royal person, and 
for years he enjoyed the favor of Emperor 
Charles V., and was sent on diplomatic mis- 
sions to Naples, France, and Vienna. 

"While fighting in Charles V.'s celebrated 
expedition to Tunis, becoming wounded, he 
was rescued by the emperor himself. Later, 
in the Italian war he was killed in defending a 
difficult post. 

"We shall see his tomb at Toledo, where 
Gongora says every stone is a monument of 
him. He says of himself that he lived, 'now 
seizing on the sword, and now the pen,' and 
some of his poetry is as fine as are the knightly 
deeds of his life. The versification is uncom- 
monly sweet and tender, as for example in the 
lines : 

" ' For thee, the silence of the shady wood 
I loved; for thee, the secret mountain top 
Which dwells apart, glad in its solitude; 
For thee, I loved the verdant grass, the wind, 
That breathed so fresh and cool, the lily pale, 
The blushing rose and all the fragrant treasures 
Of the opening spring.' 

"Garcilaso's success, added to Boscan's, 
introduced the Italian style of poetry into 



LEGENDS BY THE WAT. 155 

Spain, and so he wielded a great influence 
upon the national literature. 

''Five miles away from here is the Duke of 
Wellington's estate. It was given him by the 
King of Spain at the close of the Peninsular 
War, and is called Sota de Roma, and he it 
was who planted the magnificent elms." 

"I want to hear all the legends Diego told 
you last night, about these places we are pass- 
ing, " said the Pessimist, as she leaned back in 
the corner of the carriage, empty of travelers 
save for ourselves. 

" ' From Almeria to Granada 
The Moorish king did ride, 
And thrice a hundred Moorish knights 
Went prancing by his side,' 

and Almeria, called Al-Mariyat by the Arabs, 
is on the sea-shore, and upon a hill crowned 
by a beautiful castle. From this castle the 
cavalcade sallied, bearing in its train a Chris- 
tian captive. The Moors were talking and 
boasting each of his respective Leila or Hafiza 
or Fatima, when out spoke the captive: 

" ' Ye all have vaunted yours, my lords, 
And now I '11 speak of mine; 
Her face so fair and ruddy bright, 
Like morning sun doth shine.' 

"At this the Moorish king suggested that 
so fair a maiden belonged by right to him; to 

which the youth replied: 



156 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

" ' I '11 give her thee, my Moorish King, 
If thou my life wilt spare;' 
'Present her now,' the king replied, 
'And I will grant thy prayer.' 
At this the gay young Spaniard 
Drew a medal from his breast, 
The Virgin Mary's face; 
The king grew pale to see it, 
And turned him from the place; 
'Away with him, the scoffing dog 
To Almeria bear; 
Bestow him in a dungeon deep, 
To live his life out there!' 

"Further the deponent sayeth not, but the 
probabilities are that the youth languished 
there indefinitely. He may be there yet, but 
we 're not going to see," I added, flippantly. 

"Go on," said the Pessimist, sleepily. 

"Another Moorish knight captured a Chris- 
tian, who remarked: 

" ' My father was of Ronda, 
My mother Antequera; 
The Moors they led me captive, 
To Xeres de La Frontera,' 

and here he seems to have had a rather un- 
pleasant time. The Moor sat up nights to 
devise punishments for him, and his fertility 
of imagination was such that he played horse 
with him (literally and not in a slang sense), 
driving him with lash and bit and bridle. 

"The Moor's wife, however, took pity on 
him, and allowed him to escape, and he says 



LEGENDS DT THE WAT. 157 

" 'She sent me to my own country, 
With gold doubloons twice fifty, 
And so it pleased the God of Heaven 
That I am here in safety.' 

" There is another delightful ballad begin- 
ning: 

"«0 Valencia! O Valencia! 
Valiant city of renown, 
Once the Moor, he was thy master 
Now thou art a Christian town,' 

and it goes on to tell a very unpleasant legend 
about a Christian girl who entrapped a Moor, 
beguiling him until her father could come to 
bind him in chains. 

"Of course, the Moor would have carried 
her away to his harem, and murdered her 
father, but a treacherous woman is such a 
horror to me I cannot bear the story." 

"Is there no Spanish literature but Moorish 
ballads?" asked the Pessimist. 

"Indeed there is. Have you forgotten 
Cervantes, and Calderon, and Lope de Vega, 
Boscan and Guzman?" I said, indignantly. 

"If I wanted a list of Spanish writers, I 
daresay I could look in the encyclopaedia for 
them," said she, fretfully. "Can 't you tell 
me something about them? And why are 
there not more of them at Granada?" 

"Because when the Moors left Granada its 
greatness died away, and they took their 



15S WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

peculiar type of literature with them. The 
Moors of Cordova and Toledo were more 
amalgamated with the Spaniards, and so more 
remains of their scholarship are left to us."' I 
said. 

"There were only two places for literature 
to thrive in those days, — the monasteries and 
the court. 

"The kings were large patrons of learning, 
and the scholarly who were not in the church 
drifted to the royal seat of government, and 
this was not at Granada. Very few of the 
old authors ever settled down at home. Take 
for instance the ancestor of Garcilaso de la 
Vega, Fernan Perez de Guzman. Born in 
1400, he was knighted by King John II. for 
unusual braver}- at the battle of Higueruela, 
near Granada in 143 I. 

"He wrote in a grave, Castilian style, a 
charming book called, 'Praise of the Great 
Men of Spain." 

"His pen portraits of Juan II., the great 
Constable, and many others are well drawn, 
and he writes fairly and in good faith, though 
sometimes one detects a trace of the disap- 
pointed courtier. He says: 'No doubt it is a 
noble thing and worthy of praise to preserve 
the memory of great families, and of the serv- 
ices they have rendered to the king and to the 
commonwealth, but here in Castile this is 



LEGEXDS BT THE WAT. 159 

now held of small account. To say truth it 
is really little necessary, for nowadays he is 
noblest who is richest!' 

"0, tempera! O, mores! Even in 1430 
the corruption of money-getting had begun to 
corrode the simple dignity of Castilian life." 

"Long before that we 're told that the Move 
of money is the root of all evil,' " said the 
Pessimist. 

"Look there!" I cried, pointing out of the 
window. "Is not that exactly what Long- 
fellow paints in his 'Castles in Spain?' 

" ' The long straight line of the highway, 
The distant town that seems so near, 
The peasants in the field, that stay 
Their toil to cross themselves and pray, 
When from the belfry at midday 
The Angelus they hear.' 

"We '11 soon be at Cordova, the last of the 
Moorish cities. Toledo is nearly all Gothic, 
and the architecture there has scarcely a trace 
of the Moor." 

"Tell me something about Moorish archi- 
tecture," said my friend. 

"It 's no wonder the architecture in Spain 
is so varied and so beautiful," I replied. 

"The many climates produced diverse peo- 
ples, and they each showed their trend in the 
buildings. 

"The wild, free Goths have columns like 



160 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

lofty tree-trunks, and arches like interlacing 
branches. The Castilian school is grave and 
somber; the Aragonese proud and dark; the 
Andalucian softer and gayer, the Moorish 
luxurious and brilliant. 

"In a land where quarries of wonderful 
stone abounded, where mines were full of 
treasures, and where forests yielded woods of 
oak or pine, buildings must have been num- 
erous, and as the climate is one which is 
peculiarly favorable to preservation, the speci- 
mens of antique and modern are about equally 
preserved. There, among those clustering 
trees is a glimpse of a typical Moorish house. 
Is it not charming? 

"The Moors founded their architectural 
schools upon those of Persians and Byzan- 
tines, preserving the salient points of each. 

"Their mosques had the Basilica of Byzan- 
tium, and their palaces boasted of arches, col- 
umns, stalactite ceilings, horse-shoe wind- 
and mosaic dados. 

"The splendor of the buildings often out- 
shone the originality of conception. One 
thing is peculiarly noticeable about Moresque 
edifices, — they never overtop themselves, that 
is, the proportions are so adjusted that they 
always appear solidly founded, and never top- 
heavy. Their ceilings are light in tone, and 
their minarets seem to spring heavenward. 



LEGENDS BY THE WAT. 161 

"The interiors are particularly noticeable in 
the beauty and minuteness of detail displayed. 
It seems well-nigh impossible to believe that 
what looks like wonderful carving on the walls 
is merely stucco. " 

"How is it done?" asked the Pessimist. 
"Was all that in the Alhambra just stucco?" 

"Every bit, but a sublimated extract of 
stucco, the manufacture of which the Moors 
studied years to attain," I said. 

"Plates of plaster of Paris were cast in 
moulds, and skillfully joined together so that 
no piecing showed. This method of diaper- 
ing the walls with arabesques was invented in 
Damascus, centuries ago. The Moors used 
much gilding in their work, especially on the 
cupolas and ceilings. Lapis lazuli was the favor- 
ite hue, and only the primary colors were used. 
It 's wonderful how they have kept their tone. 

"Why were tiles used so much?" asked my 
companion. 

"They were cool and clean, a sine qua turn 
in warm climates. The Spaniards called them 
Azulejos, from azul which means blue, and 
the use of them descends from Scripture 
times. Isaiah says, 'Behold, I will lay thy 
stones with fair colors, and lay thy founda- 
tions with sapphires,' and somewhere else it 
reads, 'There was under his feet as it were a 
paved work of sapphire stone.' 



1 62 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

The Moors introduced them into Spain, 
the Dons into the Netherlands, and the old 
azuUjos are nothing to-day but Dutch tile 

'*It 's wonderful how everything gets some- 
where else some time or other, ' ' remarked the 
Pessirr 

•Very wonderful," I replied. "I should 
like to get to the Land of Nod, just now, for 
I m rather tired," and we both subsided tem- 
porarily seeking "such stuff as dreams are 
made of. 

When I awoke I found the Pessimist eyeing 
me reproachful 

. :: time you go to sleep and leave me 
alone for hours, I wish you would n . on 
the guide-book," she remarked acrid: 

"I was n't very uncomfortable," I returned, 
with the placidity a good nap insures. 

"la there anything more you 'd like to 
know 

\ great many thing- - Much 

more than you can tell, probably. Who were 
the Manrique 

'There were several Manriques, all de- 
scended from the great Counts of Lara, but 
Jorge de Manrique is the most famous,' I 
replied. "He was a splendid fellow, and a 
fighter, as most of them were. His coplas were 
celebrated, so much so that they are alw 
spoken of simply as 'The Coplas of Manriqu 



LEGENDS BT THE WAT. 163 

"He wrote the dainty lines: 

" ' Alas! where is the King Don Juan, 

Each royal heir and noble prince of Aragon? 
Where are the courtly gallantries, 
The deeds of love and high emprise 

In battle done? 
Tourney and joust that charmed the eye, 
And scarf and gorgeous panoply 

And nodding plume, 
What were they but a pageant scene? 
What but the garlands gay and green 

That deck the tomb? ' 

"Manrique died a heroic death in 1479, 
endeavoring to quell an insurrection, and in 
his bosom were found unfinished verses upon 
the uncertainty of human affairs." 

"Do you know about any more Spanish 
poets?" said the Pessimist. 

"I know a great deal," I said evasively, 
"but do you realize what we are coming to? 

"Mountains are giving place to the famous 
cornfields. That river is the Guadajoz. We 
are nearing our journey's end, and in an hour 
we shall reach the spot where 

" ' Cordova is hidden among 

The palm, the olive and the vine, 
Gem of the south, by poets sung, 
And in whose mosque Almanzor hung 
As lamps, the bells that once had rung 
At Compostelo's shrine-' 




CHAPTER XI. 

CORDOVA AND LA MESQUITA. 

Cordcr. said 

the Pessimist as :x>d 

on the famous old bridge 
over the Guadalqu: 
which Arab writers tell 
us was originally built by 
Octavius Caesar. 
It was rebuilt by the Caliphs, and : 
picturesque with en arches and Calo- 

harra tower, which guarded the city so well 
during Pedro of Casti. and the view 

fine from this coign of vantage. 
Less Moresque than its southern Anda- 
lucian rivals, Granada and Seville, Cordova 
bears few traces of its magnificent past. 

I: is a sad place." I said, "but 'even,* dog 
must have his day,' and it 's always a conso- 
lation to me to think of that. 

"I do n't see why," said my friend. 
'That's because you're a Pessirr. I 

returned. "No matter if we do get old and 
worn out. we have had our good time some- 
where, somehow 

164 



CORDOVA AND LA MES^UITA. 165 

"Oh!" said she, "I always thought that 
proverb meant that you were to get old and 
miserable, and that your day was sure to be 
over." 

"Oh, Pessimist, Pessimist! You 're incor- 
rigible!" I exclaimed. "But instead of 
mourning over the past glories of Cordova 
it behooves us to be sallying forth to see what 
is to be seen in the present. Everything else 
first, and then the cathedral for the last, 
so we can spend all the spare time within 
its walls. It 's our last sample of Moorish 
Spain, remember, for we 're leaving the Sara- 
cens soon." 

We wandered about the streets, spotlessly 
clean, and the first ever paved in Europe 
(done by Abdu-r-rhaman in 850), and soon 
reached the opening at the corner of the street 
of the Great Captain, and street of the Con- 
ception. 

"There it is, the famous St. Nicholas bell 
tower. How quaint and curious it is! Read 
those words, ' Pacie?icia, obediential' They 
were put up to reprove the nuns of San Mar- 
tin, who, living opposite here, objected to 
having the church obstruct their view." 

"Where is the Alcazar?" asked the Pessi- 
mist. 

'We are going there next, but you '11 be 
disappointed if you expect much. 



1 66 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

"It was the Caliph's palace, and was mag- 
nificent, but nothing remains now but a few 
walls and orchards, and the prison stands on 
the site. The baths and gardens of the 
Alcazar used to be superb, and the water was 
brought from the Guadalquivir by a hydraulic 
brick machine, called Albolafia. The baths 
were in perfect condition until the fifteenth 
century, when the water wheel was destroyed 
because the noise kept Queen Isabella awake 
when she lodged there 

"Is there a picture gallery'" asked the 
Pessimist. 

"I 'm happy to say there *s none worth see- 
ing. Cordova never produced great painters, 
and but few literati claim her as birthplace. 

"This seems strange when one remembers 
that in the time of the Caliphate it was the 
seat of learning, the Athens of Spain. Birth- 
place of Seneca, Lucan and Averroes, who 
translated Aristotle in the twelfth century, it 
used to be the Carta tuba, or 'important city ' 
Phoenician times, and was called Patricia by 
the Romans, and made the capital of Ulterior 
of Spain. 

"Because it sided with Pompey. Csesar put 
to death twenty-eight thousand of its inhabi- 
tants, and under the Goths the city lost all 
prominence. 

4 'The capital of the Moorish empire, under 



CORDOVA AXD LA MBS^UITA. 167 

the Ummeyah family, Cordova attained a 
population of three hundred thousand, with 
mosques, hospitals, churches, libraries, baths, 
and a pleasing income of thirty million dollars 
a year. Quarrels soon put an end to its in- 
ternal prosperity, and made it an easy prey 
for the Spanish who, under St. Ferdinand, 
took possession of the city in 1235." 

"Quite a dose of history," said the Pessi- 
mist. "Don't you know any legends or 
stories about these places?" 

"I should think you 'd be sick and tired of 
legends, but I know plenty of them. For 
before I came to Spain I was brought up on 
Lockhart's Spanish ballads. 

"Do you remember our very unpleasant 
friend, Don Pedro El Cruel? 

"At Montiel he met his death in a way as 
unpleasant as some of the punishments he in- 
flicted on his enemies. 

"His brother, Prince Henry of Trastamara, 
had stirred up the populace against Pedro, 
and, incited by the murder of Queen Blanche 
of Bourbon, the French aided Henry to gain 
the throne. 

"Pedro, although helped by the English 
Black Prince, and successful for a time, had 
been compelled to yield, and in La Mancha 
country was taken prisoner. 

"Prince Henry, finding him there, endeav- 



1 68 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

ored to kill him, and the old chronicles tell us 
that he was successful. 

"So he died, and as 'of the dead nothing 
unless good,' we '11 let him rest in peace if he 
can. 

"Cordova was the birthplace of Fernando 
Gonzalezde Cordova or the Great Captain, 
and also of his brother, Don Alonzo de 
Aguilar. 

"After the conquest of Granada, many 
Moors stubbornly unconquered still, hid them- 
selves in the Alpujarras, and harassed the 
Christian forces beyond words, falling upon 
them when least expected, cutting off strag- 
glers, and doing deadly damage. Many of the 
flowers of Spanish chivalry were cut down. 

"Don Alonzo went on a desperate venture 
to plant the banner of Ferdinand upon the 
Alpujarras; the Moors lay in ambush, and 
overpowered the brave Spaniard, who fought 
like a lion until 

" A hundred and a hundred darts are hissing round his 

head, 
Had Aguilar a thousand hearts, their blood had all been 

shed, 
Faint and more faint, he staggers upon the slippery sod, 
At last his back is to the earth, his soul is with his God!'' 

"The next place we are to go is the Calle 
de las Cabezas, and there is the house where 
the heads of the Infantes de Lara were placed. 
The seven knights of Lara were beheaded by 



CORDOVA AND LA MESQUITA. 169 

an enemy at Burgos, and their heads sent to 
the Moorish Caliph at Cordova. He — with a 
little gentle hospitality of the day — invited 
the Count of Lara (father of the seven lords) 
to dine with him, and served on the table the 
grinning heads. Rather an extraordinary piece 
de resistance for a dinner!" 

"Is there anything pleasant about Cor- 
dova?" asked the Pessimist. "It seems to 
me it 's as bloody as Seville." 

"It is, very nearly," I answered serenely, 
unmoved by her fine scorn. "But it 's here 
we first have glimpses of Cervantes. He 
visited Cordova after his return from Algiers, 
and a little later was sent to La Mancha to 
collect rents for the Prior of the Order of St. 
John. The debtors refused payment, and 
after persecuting Cervantes, threw him un- 
justly into prison, and there he began 'Don 
Quixote,' which was printed at Madrid in 
1604. What a wonderful character his was! 
Always buoyant, always gracious, always 
sweet-tempered, and generous even to Lope 
de Vega, who envied and sneered at him. 
Brave through misfortunes, sensible in pro- 
sperity, vivacious, yet meeting the grim 
specter of a painful death from dropsy, with 
calmness and sanctity. 

" 'Farewell to jesting,' he said upon his 
death-bed. 'Farewell, my merry humors, 



I70 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 
farewell to my gay friends, for I feel that I 
am dying, and have no desire but soon to see 
you happy in the other life, ' and with perfect 
serenity he died in 1616, a lovely old man. 

"The convent in which he was buried was 
removed, and no one knows where the great 
man's ashes lie, but he is enshrined forever 
within the hearts of all who love a merry jest. 

"Now, Pessimist, we've seen everything 
but the cathedral, and I am hungry and tired; 
let us go into this cool-looking cafe, and seek 
a patio, and have a genuine Spanish lunch- 
eon." 

"You remind me of a girl I once heard of. 
Her sister gave her a book of letters, written 
by an English woman, who was constantly 
saying, 'The Picture Gallery was fine, but I 
will not enter into details now. We went to 
luncheon at a delightful cafe': and then would 
follow the menu. " 

"Well, I venture to say, if your friend's sis- 
ter ever went abroad she was the victim of 
hunger, as I am," I replied, and we went into 
the neat little shop and through to the cool, 
pleasant patio. 

Such a luncheon! Lamb chops, cooked in 
a mysterious manner, with vegetables of vari- 
ous kinds decorating the platter. These were 
followed by artichokes, with a thick butter 
sauce, and the tender leaves were so delicious 



CORDOVA AND LA AfESQUITA. 171 

it seemed as if one could never tire of break- 
ing them off, putting the succulent green ends 
into the sauce, and eating slowly, lest the de- 
licious flavor should go too quickly. Next 
came an omelette, a soupcon of onion lurking 
in its depths, and parsley and cheese to grace 
it, potatoes in golden-brown balls, chocolate, 
thick and dark, oranges, dates and figs, large, 
juicy olives from the finest groves in the world 
near Cordova, and Montilla to drink, spark- 
ling Montilla, light, dry and finer even than 
Xeres sherry. 

The coolness of the fountain lulled my 
senses, and I sat in a dreamy content until we 
sallied forth, refreshed, into the quiet street. 

"We will go to the cathedral, for everybody 
else in Cordova is taking a siesta," I said. 

"There!" as we approached a grove of 
trees, "that is the beginning of the Court of 
Oranges, and many of the orange trees date 
from the sixteenth centuiy. That splendid 
pile is the famous Mesquita, or what is left of it. 

" 'Let us rear a mosque,' said Abdu-r-rha- 
man, in 785 A.D., 'which shall surpass that of 
Bagdad, of Damascus, and of Jerusalem; a 
mosque which shall be the greatest temple of 
Islam, one which shall become the Mecca of 
the West.' 

"For its building, Christian slaves were made 
to toil under whip and lash, and even the 



172 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Caliph himself worked an hour every day. 
The walls through which we have just passed 
contained twenty bronzed doors, magnificent 
in arabesques and workmanship. Now we en- 
ter, and if we act, as De Amicis says he did, 
we shall be considered mad women." 

The Pessimist gave an incredulous laugh, 
which, however, was turned into a gasp of as- 
tonishment as we saw the vast forest of col- 
umns, and the wonderful vistas produced by 
these arcades of marble pillars. Twelve hun- 
dred of them from all over the world, even 
distant Constantinople ; of all styles and shapes, 
of many-hued marbles, of jasper, green or 
blood-red, or red Brecia from Cabra. 

"Oh, Pessimist!" I exclaimed, "look down 
those rows of pillars. You seem to see nine- 
teen naves one way and twenty-nine the other, 
and whichever way you look it is down a vast 
arcade of wonder. Only see the wonderful 
arches! Are they not in their perfection here? 
I never saw such roofs before, either. They 
were made of Alcrcc, the unperishable arbor 
vita, and were gilded most wonderfully. 

"The cupolas are new. Nobody cares for 
them. Why could n't the Spaniards have left 
this mosque as a sample of the Moresque? 
Let us see the anachronism Charles V. put in 
the center. He seems to have had a mania 
for such performances. 



CORDOVA AND LA MESQUITA. 173 

"When he saw how much beauty had been 
destroyed, he did have the grace to be dis- 
pleased, and rated the chapter roundly. 'You 
have built here,' he said, 'what any one might 
have built anywhere, but in doing it you have 
destroyed what can never be replaced,' and he 
walked away disgusted." 

"That was sensible of him," said the Pessi- 
mist, as she followed his example. "It *s bad 
enough to have it here now, but in the days 
when the Mosque was in its glory it must have 
been maddening. Where is the sanctuary?" 

"Here, beside these peculiarly gorgeous pil- 
lars. They called it Mihrab, and there was 
kept the Koran. The pulpit cost a million 
and a quarter of dollars, and was studded with 
gold nails, and made of ivory, and unequaled 
in all the world. 

"This place is just one of those that one 
cannot talk about," and we wandered silently 
through the beautiful chapels and arcades. 

Never, in all the world, were there such 
mosaic ornamentations of the Byzantine type, 
not even at St. Sophia, in Constantinople. 
They were called by the Greeks psepJiosis, 
and by the Moors, sopysafoJi, and the artists 
were imported from Turkey. 

The original wonders are being restored, un- 
der the direction of Don Ricardo Velasquez. 

We did not seem to care for history, or to 



174 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 
know whose the great tombs were, or anything 
else, but only wished to gaze and gaze, bewfl- 
dered and amazed at such beauty and such in- 
tricacy. Only one incident seemed to bring 
us in touch with the Christians rather than the 
Moors, who, if heathen, had yet done so much 
for art in the wondrous pile. 

Upon a pillar was rudely scratched a cruci- 
fix, and it is said to have been done by a 
Christian captive, chained for life to this mar- 
ble column because he would not accept Mo- 
hammedanism. 



CHAPTER XII, 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 




V w,^^^^ 



HE Pessimist and I nearly 
quarreled at leaving Cor- 
dova. I always want to 
stay in every place longer 
than I can, partly because 
I 'm indolent, and dis- 
like hurry, and also be- 
cause a cursory glance at any city is unsat- 
isfactory, if one desires really to know anything 
about the people. 

However, my companion very justly re- 
marked that it would be the same way, no mat- 
ter where I might be, and if we did n't leave 
Cordova then, we 'd have to give up Toledo 
altogether. I wanted to go out to Montilla, the 
birthplace of the Great Captain. Here it was 
that the finest castle in Andalucia was built by 
Gonzalo dc Cordova's father, and demolished 
utterly by Ferdinand the Catholic, to punish 
the treachery of the Great Captain's nephew. 

"Call me not unhappy that my castle is de- 
stroyed," said the grand old warrior, "Call me 

i7S 



176 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

rather most wretched that I am the uncle of 
a traitor." 

I longed for a sight of this spot, but the 
Pessimist sensibly remarked : 

"What good will it do you to go there, when 
the castle is destroyed?" 

She sternly refused to permit me to visit the 
unpleasant huts of the hermits. 

"They are ill-smelling, and feverish," she 
insisted. "You can read all about them in 
the guide-book, and as they won't permit a 
woman inside the Ermitas, that will answer 
just as well." 

"Then let us go out to Arrizafa, and see 

the site of the Rizzefah of Abdu-r-rhaman. 

It was the most beautiful villa ever built, and 

the palms are superb. Abdu-r-rhaman planted 

the first in Spain, and wrote lovely verses 

about the transplanted tree, 

" ' Tu tambien msigne palma, 
Eres aqui forestra? 

Or at least let me see the remains of the fairy 
palace of Azzahia, the Sultana. It was a wil- 
derness of marble and jasper, and is called the 
Moorish Versailles; and the Caliph was so in- 
terested in the work that he missed three Fri- 
days at the mosque, for which Mundhar threat- 
ened him with the fires of the Inferno. It 
cost millions, and was only to be compared to 
the palaces of the Arabian Nights." 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 177 

To all this, however, my chaperon only 
responded serenely: 

'We will go to Toledo by way of La Man- 
cha and Valdepefias," and I succumbed, in- 
wardly raging, outwardly resigned. 

We crossed the Guadalbarbo, left the 
orange, palm, and olive trees of Cordova, and 
saw, looming up on our right Almodovar, one 
of Don Pedro's fortresses, in which he kept 
some of his treasures, about seventy million 
ducats. Then came the station of Alcolea, 
with the superb black marble bridge of 
twenty arches, and El Carpio.. where rises a 
Moorish tower built in 1325. 

Many strange and beautiful sights met my 
eyes, but I was not to be comforted. 

'We are in the province of Don Quixote, 
but 'what 's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' " 
I murmured. 

"We 're leaving Andalucia, beloved of my 
heart. Home of fair women and handsome 
men, of the gay, bright, and beautiful; of 
Moorish knight and brave battle. Nothing 
can console me for that." 

A long ride through valleys and plains, and 
Venta de Cardenas was reached. Hither Car- 
dcnio, the curate and Dorothea took the 
penitent knight, upon his giving up his solitary 
life. Near by is Valdepefias, named from 
Val de Pcfias (vale of rocks) ; and here Don 



1 78 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

Quixote cut the throats of the wine skins, 
instead of the throats of the Moors. 

The views along the route almost reconciled 
me to the journey, yet there was a tugging at 
my heartstrings. I felt that I was leaving the 
best part of me behind. 

"My heart, somehow, lurks in Andalucia, 

a section in Granada, another in Seville, a third 
in Cordova," I said to the Pessimist, who 
smiled grimly. 

"Do n't portion it out in thirds," she re- 
marked. "Wait just a little, and an inch will 
be apportioned to Toledo, another to Madrid, 
and another to — " 

"Pessimist," I said, "I'd rather have a 
sectional heart than have none at all, like you! 
But, never mind that. Look at the view. 
See the snow-capped mountains, watching 
over everything in their pure aloofness; the 
old Moorish towers perched like dying eagles 
upon a peak or crag; the winding river, flow- 
ing blue and lovely to seek the sea; the val- 
leys, fields, and forests, teeming with scarlet 
oak, strawberry trees, the purple sage, and 
yellow Linaria blossoms; and over all, the sky 
of cloudless blue, and the softest summer haze, 
which seems to soften all the harder points 
into beauty, as a filmy veil enhances the 
charms of a fair face." 

"Very lovely!" said the Pessimist. 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 179 

This was her stock expression. Every- 
thing, from an artichoke to a mountain, was 
"very lovely." 

I relapsed into silence and the guide-book, 
and did not arouse myself until we were near- 
ing Alcazar de San Juan, when the Pessimist 
asked : 

"Where was Cervantes born?" 

"No less than six places claim the honor of 
his birth, now that he is dead," I answered, 
"but really it was in Alcala de Henares, in the 
province of Madrid. I cannot think of Cer- 
vantes without a sigh ; he was so little thought 
of when he was alive, and his treatment so 
different from that of his inferior Lope de Vega. 

"Nevertheless, Spain is rather more liberal 
in honoring the living than many nations, as 
their court chronicles show." 

Between Alcazar and Toledo there is little 
of interest, for the country is treeless, stony, 
and windy, as it should be from the accounts 
of El Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha's 
accounts of tilting at windmills. 

One changes trains at Castilejo, and Toledo 
is reached in an hour and a half. Our first 
view of the Gothic city was just at sunset, and 
the golden glow fell upon the stern turrets and 
battlements, until they looked like gold and 
silver walls, rather than the grim defenses they 
are in reality. 



WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPA: 

Toledo perches insolently upon a high hill, 
rocky and steep, and below rolls the Tagus, 
spanned by the famous bridge of Alcantara. 
This brid g marvel. It was called by the 

Arabs Al-Kantarah. and built by Al-Mans- 
sour, in 997 A.D. Fortified by Henrique I., 
in 12 17 :he whole structure was swept away 
by a flood a few years later, and Alfonso El 
Sabio rebuilt it, in 1260. 

. he bridge of San Martin dates from 12 
and entwined with its fine arches is a story of 
how a woman saved her husband from disgrace 
by a dc strategy. 

The architect built the bridge faultily, and 
feared to remove the scaffolding lest the entire 
structure fall to the ground. His wife set fire 
to the bridge one dark night, so that his poor 
construction could never be discovered by the 
king. 

As we neared the city walls the Pessimist 
sd: 

Where was Florinda seen by Roderick 
* ' Do you see that Moorish tower open on 
the four sides ? That is called ' Los Banos de 
Florinda * or ' El Baflo de la C and there 

it was that Roderick saw Florinda, daughter 
of Count Julian, (called the 'Helen of Spain/) 
bathing in the Tagus. saw and loved her 'not 
but too well ' for her own peace of 
mind, and the peace of his kingdom. We 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 181 

have heard of the fair Florinda before, and 
this was the scene of the tableau vivant 
which cost the Goths the kingdom of Spain. 

"Near here is the enchanters' cavern or 
legendary 'Tower of Hercules,' and over its 
portal were the words, 'Whenever a king 
shall pass this threshold, the Empire of Spain 
will fall.' Now, Roderick, being anything 
but a respecter of persons, laughed at this pre- 
diction, sought out the cavern, and needing 
funds badly, penetrated to the depths of the 
cave, there to find a coffer, upon whose lid 
was inscribed, 'Open me, and thou shalt see 
wonders.' Roderick promptly complied, ready 
to seize the magnificent treasures within, when 
lo! all that he found was a linen scroll. On 
this were painted Moorish figures, and the 
words: 'He who opens this chest shall lose 
the kingdom of Spain by these armies.' Fatal 
words! 

"A few days later, Roderick, and all his 
army, met a bloody fate upon the field of bat- 
tle, and the Moorish dominion in Spain was 
established. 'Twas of this that Sir Walter 
Scott wrote his 'Vision of Don Roderick.' 

"Toledo looks like a mediaeval stronghold, 
and bears but few traces of Goth or Moor," I 
said to the Pessimist, as leaving the railway 
carriage we climbed into an omnibus, drawn 
by stout mules, to drive to the city. "Every- 



1 82 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

body has a navaja in his belt. We must buy 
a Toledo blade before we go. 

"Are n't the costumes of the people charm- 
ing? Look at that man. He has velvet 
breeches, leggins, a scarlet sash, braided 
jacket, and looks like one of a stage chorus. 
Here we come to the Puerto, del Sol (Gate of 
the Sun). What a warm, orange color it is, 
and how beautiful! Ah, that is at least a 
remnant of Moorish architecture, and what a 
beautiful double arch under which runs the 
street! Now, we're really in Toledo; but 
what streets ! They are nearly as narrow as 
those in Tangier. I wonder if all the streets 
are like these." 

And they are. Like a fine net-work, they 
stretch in narrow ways, away from and into 
each other, so that Toledo, without a guide, 
is an impossibility. 

The streets are all dissimilar, and the houses 
wonderful. They are covered with coats of 
arms, arabesques, carvings, and towers; in 
each corner lurks the picturesque; each stone 
is replete with memories of romances and 
legends. One can get but a faint idea of the 
beauties of Toledo, under Moorish rule, or the 
glories of it after the Spanish conquest, for, 
since the court was removed to Madrid, it has 
become like a silent city of the dead. 




Tmk Gate of in - Toledo. 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 183 

"Tell me some stories of Toledo, and what 
we shall see to-morrow," said my companion 
that night, as we sat resting after dinner. 

I had my mouth full of mazapan at the mo- 
ment, and could not answer Now, all yc 
who go to Toledo, listen to me! Miss seeing 
any of the sights you wish, neglect the cathe- 
dral, slight the churches, skim the history, 
an you will, but do not fail to eat all the 
mazapan you can. 

What is it? 

A compound not peculiar to Toledo, but 
found nowhere else in such perfection; bc- 
wilderingly delicious; also equally deadly, war- 
ranted to kill at twelve paces — a concoction 
of pastry, burned sugar, and almonds, formed 
into shapes as fantastic as are the quaint 
little shops where one buys them. Apricots 
and mazapan are the sights of Toledo. 

I bit off the head of a knight in armor, and 
replied to my friend's demand. 

'Do you know the story of King Galafrio's 
daughter? He was king here before Charle- 
magne reigned in France, and had a beautiful 
daughter named Galiana." 

"It must have been charming to live then, ' ' 
interrupted the Pessimist. "Mediaeval maids 
were always transcendently lovely." 

"Charlemagne was then very young," I 



184 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

went on, heedless of the interruption, "and he 
came to visit Toledo, and naturally fell in love 
with the princess. She, however, was be- 
trothed to Bradamente, Moorish King of 
Guadalajara, and he adored the princess so 
much that he had tunneled a way from his 
city to her palace. Alas for the devoted 
Moor! She preferred Charlemagne, and the 
latter challenged Bradamente to combat, and 
killed him, and, in the pleasing manner of the 
day, presented the head to Galiana. The 
gentle lady accepted it, a la Herodias' daueh- 
ter (and Charlemagne with it), and afterward, 
became Queen of France. 

"Then there is the story of Wamba. He 
and Ervigius were rivals, and the latter pois- 
oned Wamba, and clothed him in the particu- 
lar variety of monk's cowl which, once on, 
could never be removed. 

"Wamba recovered from the poisoning but 
could n't get over the cowl, so he retired to 
the Monastery of Pampliago, and died a monk, 
as many of the Spanish nobles, and even kings 
have done. 

"He did wisely, perhaps, in retiring while 
he was in favor, and his name has to this day 
a pleasant sound to the Spaniards. 

'Very unlike this is the reputation of 
Witiza, more wicked than Nero, in the Spanish 
estimation, and known in all the old chronicles 



TO THE CITY OF THE GOTHS. 185 

as, 'that Witiza who taught Spain to sin.' 
The especial sins he inculcated into the inno- 
cent breasts of Gothic Spain were murdering 
any or all of one's relations, making the 
canons of the cathedral marry, and putting 
two bishops over the church. 'For,' he said, 
'if the cathedral will not yield herself to me, 
she shall have two husbands instead of one.' 
But Retributive Justice (with capital letters) 
sits enthroned on many pages of history, and 
with special frequency in Spain. 

"Witiza was deposed by Roderick, son of 
Theodolfredo, imprisoned, made to suffer as 
he had made others suffer, and with his eyes 
seared out with red-hot irons, died miserably 
in a dungeon." 

"What are the people like?" asked the 
Pessimist, who had attacked the mazapan, and 
was engaged in devouring a large serpent, no 
doubt similar to the one which ate Roderick 
the Goth. 

"They used to be noted for their cultiva- 
tion, and Marguerite de Valois, sister of Fran- 
cis I., and author of L'Heptameron, said, ' Le 
langage Castilia?i est sans comparaison mieiix 
dcclara?it cette passion d' amour que ri est le 
Francais. ' Charles V. carried Castilian to 
Germany, and Philip II. to the English court 
when he married Mary Tudor; and of all forms 
of Castilian, Toledan is the purest. 



1 86 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

''King Alfonso X. decided by law that in 
case a doubt arose as to the meaning of any 
word, the Toledan sense or pronunciation 
should be accepted. Great learning existed 
here, and Toledo boasts such names as, Gar- 
cilaso de la Vega, Garci Perez de Vargas, 
and Francisco de Rojas, authors of renown. 
The people commingle Andalucian grace with 
northern dignity, and southern vivacity with 
more sterling qualities. Their loyalty is so 
noted as to have become almost a proverb. 
Alfonso VI. said at the Cortes, when a great 
revolution was pending, 'Let Burgos speak- 
first ; I will speak for Toledo, which will do 
what I wish.' 

"Toledo women are quite different from the 
women of other provinces. They have been 
called the pearls of old Castile. They are ex- 
quisitely neat, and always well dressed in 
calico skirts, red woolen petticoats, and wear 
kerchiefs over their shoulders. They are 
graver, more serious, more open, more faith- 
ful than the southern Spaniards, more mat- 
ter-of-fact, less gay. They call a spade a 
spade, with calm insistency, or as their pro- 
verb has it, ' Al pan, pan, y al vino, vino.' 

"As for the Toledans of to-day, they are as 
brave, as just, as proud as their ancestors. 
They love music, and poetry, are fond of art, 
and are alert and bold, notwithstanding a 



TO THE CITY OF THE G077/S. 1S7 

Spanish poet of a rival city has called them 'a 
silly people.' 

"Who was the Garci Perez of whom you 
spoke?" demanded the Pessimist. 

"A gay cavalier who disported himself at 
the siege of Seville in 1248," I answered. 

"He was born in Toledo, and fought in St. 
Ferdinand's army. One day he was riding 
with only one companion, when he saw seven 
Moors approaching. The friend of Don Garci 
took to flight, but 

'The Lord of Vargas turned him round, his trusty sword 

was near, 
The helmet on his brow he bound, his gauntlet grasped a 

spear/ 

and without further ado he walked serenely 
past the Moors, who did not attack him. 

"Having reached a safe place, however, 
Don Garci discovered that he had lost his 
scarf, and started back to find it. 

' I had it from my lady,' quoth Garci, ' long ago, 
And never Moor that scarf, be sure, in proud Seville shall 
show.' 

" He rescued it, escaped unhurt, and returned 
to the Christian camp; and the ballad says, 

* That day the Lord of Vargas came to the camp alone, 

The scarf his lady's largess, around his breast was 
thrown, 

Bare was his head, his sword was red, and from his pom- 
mel strung 

Seven turbans green, sore hacked, I ween, before Don 
Garci hung.' 



1 88 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"He was brother to the Perez who was 
called 'The Pounder' because when he had 
broken his sword he pulled up an olive tree, 
and killed a dozen Moors with it. Don Quix- 
ote quotes this legend, when he speaks to 
Sancho Panza of Don Diego Perez de Vargas, 
and says, 'I intend to tear up the next oak- 
tree we meet, and with the trunk thereof I 
hope to perform such deeds as thou wilt 
esteem thyself happy in having had the honor 
to behold them!' 

"So much for legends and people, and to- 
morrow for the cathedral, and all the other 
places of interest with which the city fairly 
teems." 



CHAPTER XIII. 



"TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED AMONG THE 
WARS OF WAMBA'S TIME." 




T first the cathedral of 
Toledo is a distinct dis- 
appointment. 

As Antwerp and Col- 
ogne used to be, it is 
so hedged in by mean 
houses, that a just idea 
of its size cannot be gained. Its history is 
stupendous. The consecration stone, still pre- 
served, says that it was built by King Recared, 
in 587, and tradition tells of a visit of the 
Blessed Virgin to St. Ildefonso here, in the 
seventh century. 

The Moors turned it into a mosque, and 
when King Alfonso V. conquered Toledo, in 
1085, he permitted the Moors to worship in it 
for a time. Later, by the influence of Bishop 
Bernard, it was made a Christian church 
again. 

All this magnificent building, however, was 
destroyed by St. Ferdinand, and the present 

189 



19° WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

church erected. The exterior is Gothic, mas- 
sive, with a fine tower, and an insignificant 
dome, many statues, much carving, and 
superb bronze doors, especially those at the 
Puerta de los Leones, so-called from the fine 
marble lions placed on the pillars. 

The Pessimist and I wandered discontent- 
edly around the outside of the huge building, 
endeavoring to get a good view of it, craning 
our necks, and giving ourselves cramp in the 
collar bone, but succeeding only in squinting 
viciously at the statues, while they leered back 
at us with mediaeval insolence. 

"Let us go inside," I said, for I knew the 
Pessimist was about to make discouraging re- 
marks, and I was too disheartened myself to 
wish to be compelled to cheer her up. 

Fortunately for my spirits, which had sunk 
far below normal, I was happily disappointed, 
for the five great naves, four hundred feet 
long, and bisected by a sixth, were majestic 
and solemn. There lurked a churchly quiet 
within their shadowy depths; a glimmer of 
color filtered through the marvelous stained 
windows, and the whole church breathed an 
air of sanctity, loftiness and repose, with none 
of the gloom so often found in Gothic 
churches, where there is but a "dim, religious 
light." 

We wandered idly through the many 



TOLEDO, BUILT AXD WALLED. IQI 

chapels. Everything was beautiful to rest the 
eye upon, and one scarcely cared for the mere 
details of sight-seeing. There are royal 
tombs, mausoleums of cardinals and bishops, 
strangely enough without inscriptions or 
statues. 

Perhaps the most wonderful part of the in- 
terior is the choir. The pavement is of white 
marble divided by broad slabs of dark marble 
inlaid, and over the altar is a an image of the 
Blessed Virgin in black wood. The Spanish 
peasant thinks she was undoubtedly Span- 
ish, and would be deeply indignant if you told 
him she was a Jew. He likes saints and 
angels represented as dark as possible, 
" Moreno pint aron el Crist /" 

The lower half of the choir stalls is carved 
into medallions representing the siege and 
capture of the Moors by Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella, while the recesses between the seats 
in the upper row are divided by jasper pil- 
lars. 

A curious fact about the choir is that the 
upper portion represents saints, angels, and 
patriarchs, while the lower represents warriors, 
and each row is in a style of carving of a 
different period. 

The MuzarablC chapel was built to pre- 
serve the old ritual of the Mass, used by 
those Goths, who succumbing to Moorish rule, 



192 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

were allowed to retain their own form of wor- 
ship. 

The sacristan told a curious tale of the 
preservation of this ritual to the Toledan 
church. 

''It differed, sefioritas," the old monk said, 
"from the ritual used at Rome, and the Holy 
Father desiring to preserve everywhere the 
unity of the church, which is one of the signs 
that it is the true church, desired the Toledans 
to follow the usual rule. They did not like to 
desert the customs of their ancestors, and de- 
termined to make the test by fire, so often 
used in the Middle Ages. Two huge piles 
were lighted in the Zocodover; the two missals 
were placed upon them ; one was burned, but 
a puff of wind blew out the fire under the 
Toledan missal, and it is used to this day. 
But only here, in one chapel, in memory of 
our fathers. 

"Have you seen the chapel of Santiago?" 
asked our kindly guide, and as we answered, 
"No," he led us to this gem of Gothic work, 
in the shape of an octagon. 

"Here," said the monk, "lies buried Don 
Alvaro de Luna, Constable of Castile, Grand 
Master of Santiago. He was the king's favor- 
ite, but was executed unjustly at Valladolid, 
in 1452. He was a man great in peace and 



TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED. 193 

in war, and with rare nobility of soul, yet he 
died an ignominious death." 

We wandered for hours until weary and 
foot-sore, seeing ever new wonders, until worn 
out with so much beauty we paused to rest in 
the quiet cloisters, near the Puerta del Mollete. 
"Why is this called ' del MolleteV " asked the 
Pessimist. 

"'Afollete' means loaf," I said, "and 
loaves of bread were here distributed to the 
poor. What shall you remember in all the 
cathedral?" 

"The grave of Archbishop Portocarrero, " 
said the Pessimist, "and the inscription, 'Hie 
jacet pulvis, cinis, nullus.' (Here lies dust, 
ashes, naught)," she replied, to my surprise, 
for she is not given to noticing details. 

"I doubt if I shall ever be able to recall 
anything," I said. "My mind feels like a 
Nesselrode pudding, cold, and stuffed with all 
sorts of things; but I'm certain, I sha 'n't 
ever forget the impression which the whole 
thing gives of magnificence and grandeur. 
Oh for a few mediaeval cathedrals in our own 
nineteenth century!" 

"It 's time for some stories," said the Pes- 
simist, and I laughed and began. 

"When King Alfonso was captured by his 
brother, Don Sancho, who wished to unite 
Castile and Leon under his own rule, Donna 



194 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Urraca, the sister of both Alfonso and Sancho 
urged the latter to allow Alfonso to become a 
monk in the monastery of Sahagun. Don 
Sancho granted this request, but Alfonso, 
probably concluding that vows made at the 
sword's point did not require keeping, 
promptly ran away from the monastery, and 
sought refuge with the Moorish king at To- 
ledo. 

Now the Cid had been on the side of Donna 
Urraca, and so Don Sancho was decidedly dis- 
pleased with this doughty warrior, who seems 
to have fought with equal impartiality on any 
side. Don Sancho banished him forthwith, 
and, 

'The Cid with all his vassals 
Hath left his native land, 
And he has to Toledo gone 
To join Alfonso's band.' 

"However, before he got there, Don San- 
cho evidently thought better of it, and re- 
called him to court. During the siege of To- 
ledo, in 1085, Diego, the Cid's only son, was 
slain, and this city always had mournful asso- 
ciations for the Campeador. 

"Alvar Fanez had followed the Cid in all 
his campaigns, and was made governor of To- 
ledo to represent the Cid, governing wisely 
and well, and defending the city bravely 
against the Moors." 



TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED. 195 

"If you don't mind my saying so," re- 
marked the Pessimist, "I 'm rather tired of 
the Cid. Do we have to meet him in every 
Spanish city?" 

"Oh, no," I replied cheerfully. "Not 
quite. We 're going to buiy him in Burgos." 

"Allah be praised!" said the Pessimist. 

"That 's what the Moors said, when he 
died," I answered. "Now, we're going to 
see some of the churches. Santa Maria la 
Blanca comes first. It was an old syna- 
gogue, and was in the Jewish quarter; and 
the interior is a beautiful collection of polyg- 
onal columns and horse-shoe arches. The 
Jews were turned out, and it was made a 
Christian church, afterward barracks, and is 
now in a state of repair. El Transito also was 
a synagogue. It has the motto, 'We who in- 
habit this land have built this house with a 
strong and powerful arm.' The Jews 
abounded in Toledo, and are said to have 
betrayed it to the Moors. 

'The most interesting church in Toledo is 
Cristo de la Luz, a fine specimen of Moorish 
architecture. 

"It was named from an adventure of our ac- 
quaintance the Cid. Riding past it one day, 
the Cid's steed, the famous Bavieca, knelt 
reverently, and instantly, within a niche ap- 
peared an image of Our Lord, lighted by the 



196 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

remains of the old Gothic lamps. It is a tiny 
place, but very perfect as to detail; and here 
Alfonso VI. went to say his prayers, and hung 
up his shield to commemorate his victory over 
the Moors. There it hangs still." 

"What is the legend of El Cristo de la 
Vega?" asked the Pessimist. 

"That is an interesting church, and what is 
called pretorie?isis, the center of a judicial 
power, and is named from the legend of a 
Spanish maid, Inez Vargos. 

"She was betrothed to Diego Martinez, and 
he, departing to the war in Flanders, returned 
a Grandee, and forgot his betrothed. 

"She appealed to the governor for justice, 
and he asked her for a witness. Now, it 
chanced that Diego's betrothal vow had been 
made beneath the statue of the Cristo de la 
Vega, and to this Inez appealed. A vast con- 
course assembled before the statue, and Don 
Pedro de Alarcon — the governor — cried, 
'Cristo de la Vega, I pray Thee show us a 
sign, if Thou hast heard Diego Martinez swear 
to be the husband of Inez Vargos?' 

"Fancy the wonder of the great multitude 
when the arm of the statue suddenly loosened 
itself from the crucifix, and fell to the side as 
if to sign assent." 

"What became of Inez? Did she marry 
the recalcitrant knight?" asked the Pessimist. 



TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED. 197 

"Of course not. She went into a convent, 
and he became a Carmelite; but it 's just as 
well, probably. If I had to get a husband 
by a miracle, I should n't care for him." 

"What is that huge building?" she asked, 
as we passed a fine structure in the Spanish 
renaissance style. 

"It was built in 1504 by the Catholic 
queen, and was the Hospital of Santa Cruz, 
built in the form of a Maltese cross. It is 
now the Infantry College. 

"Next comes San Juan de los Reyes, with 
walls hung with the chains taken from Chris- 
tian captives at Granada. Despite all a wom- 
an's natural sympathy for the under dog, I 
think the Moors must have been rather vicious 
taskmasters, and Ferdinand and Isabella did a 
good thing when they turned them out. They 
may have understood the fine arts, but they 
had down to a fine point the arts of cruelty. 

'When Charles V. rewarded the Constable 
de Bourbon for his treason to Francis I., he 
presented him with a house here in Toledo; 
but no one will tell where it is, for it was 
called the Traitor's House, and the Toledanos 
conceal its whereabouts as carefully as the 
people of Marblehead do that of old Floyd 
Ireson. 

"Here is the Alcazar. What a great pile it 
is! What a shame, it 's falling to pieces, and 



198 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

too, what a perfect color that chalky stone 
has turned with time! 

"The view of the river here is the finest we 
have had. 

"By the time we have seen a few of the 
private houses we shall be worn out. In fact I 
am now, but we must not miss the Talleo del 
Moro and Las Tornerias, the best examples of 
the Moorish houses to be found." 

"I won 't see anything more," said the Pes- 
simist, firmly. "I shall soon be as mad as a 
March hare or Don Quixote." 

"There are only five thousand lunatics in 
Spain; please don't make the five thousand 
and first," I answered. "But, I daresay, we 
had better go and digest what we have seen, 
instead of cramming till we are mentally the 
size of poor Sancho the Fat, who had to apply 
to the Moors to reduce his flesh, because 
his subjects laughed at and would not obey 
him." 

"You talk as if your mind were a mental 
baloon, and would expand at will," said the 
Pessimist. 

'"And still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all she knew,'" 

I quoted, and we ceased our sight-seeing, and 
dreamed where, 



TOLEDO, BUILT AND WALLED. 1 99 

"' Rearing their crests amid the cloudless skies 

And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight, 
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise 

As from a trembling lake of silver white. 

Their mingled shadows intercept the sight 
Of the broad burial-ground outstretched below, 

And naught disturbs the silence of the night; 
All sleeps in sullen shade or silver glow, — 
All save the heavy swell of Tejo's ceaseless flow.' " 



CHAPTER XIV. 




IN OLD MADRID. 

" Long years ago, in old Madrid, 
Where softly sighs of love the light guitar," 

SANG, vigorously drum- 
ming an accompaniment 
on the window pane, as 
I looked restlessly into 
the busy street below. 

Fate was proving un- 
kind during our stay in 
Madrid. We were not to remain many days, 
and the first one had been rainy and disagree- 
able. The Pessimist had developed a violent 
cold, and a wild desire to go home, while I was 
cross enough to give to her the unpleasant 
adjectives I had applied to the weather. 
At last I remarked : 
"I am going out !" 

"Not by yourself," said my chaperon, 
sternly. 

"I '11 take the maid with me, then," I re- 
plied, ringing for the pretty Madrilefia who 
cared for our room. 



200 



IN OLD MADRID. 20 1 

By means of my small supply of Spanish, 
some French, and a great many gestures, I 
managed to convey to her my intense desire 
for her society, and she ran off to ask the mis- 
tress of our Casa de Huespedes (lodging house) 
if she might play cicerone. 

In an incredibly short time she brought back 
a radiant face, surmounted with a black veil, 
and permission to remain as long as the most 
gracious lady wished. 

The gracious lady was charmed. 

"Good-bye, Pessimist," I said; "I'm sorry 
you can 't go, but I '11 come home and tell you 
all about everything, and here 's the ' Diary of an 
Idle Woman in Spain ' for you to read. It 's 
the most delightful book about the country 
that I know." 

"You need n't hurry back on my account, 
for I shall read and sleep," said my friend, 
with unusual amiability; and Esperanza and I 
started out. 

Everything in Madrid seems to start from 
the Puerta del Sol, and thither we made our 
way. What an array of people ! What as- 
tonishing shops! Gloves, laces, silks, man- 
tillas, and Spanish fans without number; men 
smoking cigarrillos, laughing, chatting, and de- 
vising numberless schemes which prove veri- 
table castles in Spain. 

The street railways, tramvia, as the Span- 



202 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

iards call them, start from this square, and go 
in every direction all over the city. 

The scene was gay, bright, and Frenchy, 
but modern, and I turned to Esperanza, 
begging to be taken somewhere else. That 
I did not like the city was evident, but 
what I wanted was beyond her comprehen- 
sion. 

"The Sefiorita does not like the Puerta del 
Sol; will she go to the Palace?" she said. 

"No; no thank you. I want something old; 
something different," I answered petulantly. 

She knit her brows in perplexity. 

"The bull-ring? No? The Town Hall? 
The Prado? The Congress? No?" 

At last with an air of relief she cried : 

"Some churches!" and I nodded assent. 

Madrid is far from being rich in churches. 
There is no cathedral worth the name, for the 
new cathedral, begun in 1885, is not likely to 
be finished during this century. 

Nearly all the churches are of renaissance 
architecture, with large pillars, insignificant 
windows, tawdry interiors; and Madrid seems 
so new, from a historic point of view, that 
there is little of romance or story connected 
with the buildings. 

"This is San Francisco el Grande," said 
Esperanza. The church is said to have been 
founded in the thirteenth century, but the 



IN OLD MADRID. 203 

present building replaced the old one in 1760. 
Here was buried one of the strangest char- 
acters of the fifteenth century, Enrique de 
Villena, a magician, whose books upon the 
subject of the black arts were burned by order 
of Henry IV. in the cloisters of St. Domingo 
el Real. One of these books remains, "Libro 
de los Trabojos de Hercules," which is still 
preserved in Madrid by Seftor Gayangos. 

The books of Villena reminded me of an- 
other famous manuscript, and I sallied forth 
into the Calle General Castafios to see the rare 
"Chronicle of the Cid." 

Esperanza could not understand, but she 
saw me interested at last, and followed com- 
placently as I sought the famous manuscript, 
which was written in Castile, in 1207, by a 
simple monk, called Pedro. The Epic of 
Spain, it has been called; and it is a fine com- 
mentary not only upon the Spanish Bayard, 
as El Cid is spoken of, but also upon the cus- 
toms and manners of the times when people 
went to war as a trade, and courage and 
cruelty clasped hands. 

"Will the Americana see the sacred statue, 
Nuestra Senora de Atocha?" asked the maid. 

"Tell me about it," I said, as we wended 
our way toward the church of the Buen 
Suceso, the statue's temporary home. 

"It was carved by the Blessed Saint Luke, 



204 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

and brought to Spain from Antiocha," she 
said. 

Nothing is more pleasing than to hear Span- 
ish peasants tell legends. They do it with 
such simple reverence and faith that the most 
incredulous must believe. I always believe 
in people and things until I am forced to 
do otherwise. Surely faith is better than 
doubt. 

"At the foot of the figure is the word 
Theotokos. I do not know what it means, 
senorita, but Fray Pedro says it is the Greek 
tongue," she continued. 

"When the old church of the Atocha was 
here, every Saturday the king and the queen- 
regent came to sing the Salve at the shrine. 
Now, the church is being made new, and 
Nuestra Senora is taken to the Bucn Suceso." 

"I am sorry the Atocha is torn down, for all 
sorts of people were buried there; Mendoza, 
Charles V.'s confessor; General Palafox, 
famous in the siege of Zaragosa, and one man 
in whom I 've always been interested, Barto- 
lome de las Casas. Do you know about him, 
Esperanza?" 

"No, senorita; will you tell me?" she said, 
her eyes shining. 

"He was a Spanish priest who was very 
fond of the Indians," I began. "Now, you 
know, the people who used to live in America 



IN OLD MADRID. 205 

in those days were not as I am, white, but 
copper-colored creatures called Indians; and 
though they were very kind and gentle, the 
Spaniards treated them so harshly, and made 
them work so hard that many of them died. 

"Las Casas tried to help them, and wrote 
books about what the Spanish did, and oh ! 
lots of things," I added, rather vaguely. 

Esperanza listened attentively, and of all 
people in the world, Spaniards are the most 
delightful listeners. 

I thought I had impressed her deeply, both 
with the fact that I was a wonderfully learned 
person, and also that Las Casas was a great 
man. 

Whether it was that I overrated the mental 
calibre of a Spanish girl of seventeen, or 
that I did not realize the difficulties of history 
lessons in my somewhat limited vocabulary, 
— at any rate, all that I received in answer 
to my lecture was an uplifting of two daintily 
arched black brows, and 

"Is it so much in your country to write 
about the things our people do? But, of 
course, the seftorita is interested in the Indians, 
since they are her fathers." 

I subsided into silence, and spoke not for 
several moments, until we entered the church 
of Santo Domingo. 

This is an ordinary looking church, founded 



206 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

in 12 19, by one of the Guzman family, with 
tombs of all manner of royalties and celeb- 
rities. 

As I browsed about, over the tesselated 
pavement, trying to decipher inscriptions with 
which defacing time had dealt as hardly as with 
the memories of those beneath, I gave an ex- 
clamation of surprise. 

"Here he is!" I exclaimed. "My old 
friend Don Pedro. Let me bid a last farewell 
to the fustic/era. So this is all that 's left of 
your golden locks and azure eyes and cruel 
smile. Nothing but dust, and a time-worn 
monument. No more churches! I want to 
go and eat luncheon, and rest and think about 
dear, lovely Seville, the Alcazar, and Don 
Pedro. Madrid is dull and uninteresting and 
tiresome." 

So we went to a dear little cafe, "El 
Suizo," in the Calle de Alcala, and had an 
excellent pucJicro, and some valdcpcnas, which 
soothed my feelings considerably. 

A pucJicro is what the French call a melange 
and is the genuine Spanish national dish. 
It is to the cuisine what renaissance is to art, 
a little of everything and not much of any- 
thing. 

It contains boiled beef, wings of chicken, 
ehorico, herbs, bacon and garbanzos. When 
one has eaten puchero, one wishes nothing 



IN OLD MADRID. 207 

else, and I enjoyed my lunch, and far more 
enjoyed seeing Esperanza eat with me. 

There is something exquisitely delightful to 
me about the calm self-respect of the Span- 
iards. 

They respect themselves so keenly that they 
respect you, too, and the perfect politeness — 
nay more — courtesy of their demeanor is won- 
derful. An American chambermaid, taken 
out for a day, as Esperanza was, would have 
spent her time in alternate fits of trying to 
show herself as good as you, and sulking be- 
cause she felt she was not. 

Of all things in Spain, I think the manners 
of the people strike one as most remarkable. 
They are never ill-bred, no matter what the 
class of society in which they live. Their 
manners vary according to the part of the 
country in which they are brought up. In 
Andalucia they are gay; in Aragon, grave; in 
Castile, deferential; but everywhere, prince or 
pauper, noble or peasant or beggar, each and 
all are courteous and thoughtful of the com- 
fort of others. 

An English writer tells a charming story of 
an old crippled beggar, ragged and not too 
clean, who got into a crowded omnibus. In- 
stantly a young officer in gay uniform 
rose, and led the beggar by the hand to his 
seat. 



208 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

As he was crowded next to two ladies, they 
smiled, and bowed to him, and he sat there 
smiling, too, and trying his poor best to 
occupy as little room as possible. 

A pretty story, and one truly illustrative of 
the Spanish manners. One draws very in- 
vidious comparisons between such actions and 
the ungracious way that seats are sometimes 
offered in our street-cars, and the almost offen- 
sive way in which "miladi " draws her skirts 
away from the unfortunate by her side. 

Esperanza and I sallied forth refreshed and 
ready to seek "fresh woods and pastures new," 
and I said, "Now, Esperanza, take me to all 
the places you like best in Madrid." 
The girl's face glowed. 

"The sefiorita is jesting," she exclaimed, 
but I reassured her. "Then we will go to the 
Prado," she said; and thither we went, going 
first, however, as we drove about the gay 
streets, to see the Bull Ring. 

How she delighted in telling me about this 
huge building! 

"It cost eight million reals, sefiorita, and 
oh, such glorious courses as we have! Six 
bulls to die! And oh, the matador, and the 
costumes, and all the people shouting! Ah! 
you should surely go on Sunday next." 

"No, thank you, Esperanza," I said. "I 
shall content myself with seeing the ring." 



IN OLD MADRID. 209 

The attendants led us into the great sand- 
covered space with tier after tier of seats ris- 
ing from it. We saw, too, the long, dark 
stalls for the bulls, and several ferocious beasts 
glared at us from behind their bars, arousing 
in my breast no desire to see them nearer, or 
to witness a fight. 

Esperanza was delighted, and I could with 
difficulty drag her away. We drove down to 
the Prado, as the afternoon waned ; and many 
gorgeous carriages were those we saw, as we 
entered the large meadow, near the Retiro, in 
the palace of which Philip IV. resided. 

The obelisk ''Dos de Mayo " stands on the 
Prado, and this is to commemorate the soldiers 
who fell on the second of May, 1808, fighting 
the French. 

The fountains in the Prado were playing; 
and the Fuente de Cibeles is very handsome, 
with its quaint figures of lions driven by 
Cibeles. 

As we drove out of the shady Prado our 
carriage drew up at one side of the road, and 
Esperanza nearly went out of her mind with 
excitement. She bobbed up and down on the 
seat until I expected to see her go over the 
side of the carriage, exclaiming over and over 
again, El Rcy! El Rcy ! " 

I thought she had lost her senses, but as I 
saw our coachman take off his hat, and every- 



2io WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

body look expectant, I concluded that some- 
thing was going to happen. 

Something did, and one of the prettiest 
things I ever saw. 

Behind an escort of mounted soldiers came 
a handsome carriage, drawn by black horses, 
and upon the cushions a charming boy. Long 
curls lay on his shoulders, and the black 
velvet of his suit set off the exquisite hues 
of his complexion. It was the boy king, 
with his mother, the queen regent, by his 
side. The people shouted and cried vocifer- 
ously : 

"ElRey!" 

He smiled and bowed with such patrician 
grace as to make him seem kingly indeed, 
when from the crowd of bystanders came a 
child's cry. A tiny girl, younger than the 
small king, was stretching out her fat little 
hand, full of flowers. Alfonso gave an order 
to the coachman, and leaned out of the car- 
riage in spite of his mother's detaining hand. 
At his quick command a guard brought the 
child to the carriage, and the boy-king took 
the flowers, pressing a piece of gold into the 
baby fingers, and smiling at the little one till 
she smiled through her tears. 

Then the shout that went up was deafening, 
and by a simple, kindly act, such as this, the 
youthful king won many hearts. 



IN OLD MADRID. 21 1 

I shall always feel that Alfonso the King, 
was the most charming sight I saw in Madrid. 
Esperanza was almost speechless as we drove 
home, and only remarked, as we passed the 
church of Caballero de Gracias: 

"Jacopo de Grattis died here, one hundred 
and two years old." 

I could have told her that here also was 
Anthony Ascham murdered, in 1650. He 
was Cromwell's ambassador, and slain here 
by English Royalists, because he had voted 
for the death of poor King Charles I. 

We drove past the Town Hall, an oblong 
building with square towers, and here used to 
be the Consejo de Madrid, where the Autos 
Sacramentales or sacred plays took place, un- 
der the auspices of the Ayuntamiento. Cal- 
deron wrote seventy-two of these autos, but 
many of them were stolen or lost. Lope 
de Vega's are even finer than Calderon's. 

Near by was the house of Ximenes, and 
from the balcony on the Calle del Sacramento, 
the great cardinal stood, when he made his 
memorable answer to the nobles. 

They asked the haughty churchman by 
what charter he had power over them ; and 
pointing to the troops and cannon in the val- 
ley of the Manzanares below, the great states- 
man replied, "These are the powers by which 
I govern the kingdom, and I will continue to 



212 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

do so until the king, your master and mine, 
comes to relieve me." 

The Torre de los Lujanes next caught my 
eye, and I had only time to glance at its noble 
outlines before hurrying home to tell its story 
to my friend, for it grew late. 

"Well, what have you seen?" asked the 
Pessimist, as I burst in upon her. "And 
what do you like best?" 

"I like the little king, and the tower of 
Francis I. Oh! I want you to see that tower. 
It is so interesting." 

"What Francis I.?" she asked. 

"Why the Francis I. of France," I ex- 
claimed. 

"How did he get there; by aerial naviga- 
tion?" she demanded. 

"Oh! don't you remember? I always 
liked that story. 

"Well, in 1520 both Charles V. of Austria 
and Spain, and Francis d'Angouleme were 
rivals for the throne of France, and gay hand- 
some, joyous, brilliant, courteous Francis was 
far more pleasing to the French than the great 
Charles, stern and cold as he was. Francis 
said, when the rivalry began, 'We are but 
two gallants courting the same mistress, 
and he who fails will have no excuse for ill- 
temper, ' but they came to blows about it finally. 

"Then came the episode of the Constable 



IN OLD MADRID. 213 

du Bourbon, whose life Louise of Savoy 
ruined, because he would not many her. 

"He turned to the Spanish, and it was to 
him the dying Chevalier Bayard said, on the 
field of battle, 'Pity not me; I die as an hon- 
est man. I rather pity you, in arms against 
your king, your country and your oath.' 

'Upon this disaster, at which all France 
mourned (for everybody adored The Good 
Knight, as Bayard was called), followed closely 
the capture of Francis at the Battle of Pavia. 
Hemmed in by the enemy on all sides, his 
chosen knights dying around him, twice 
thrown from his horse, twice wounded, his 
magnificent coat-of-mail stained deep with 
blood, the gallant king was at last forced to 
yield his sword. 

"Charles was exultant. The royal prisoner 
was brought to Madrid, and imprisoned in 
that very tower I saw to-day, that of Los Lu- 
janes. Here he is supposed to have written 
the line to his mother, 'All is lost save 
honor,' and here he languished; although the 
author of the 'Stories of the Kings of Na- 
varre ' tells us he could hear the singing and 
merry-making at his capture in the valley 
below. 

"Then he was taken to the palace, and kept 
close prisoner in a manner scarce befitting his 
rank and name. After remaining a year, he 



214 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

signed the Treaty of Madrid, relinquishing to 
Charles, Burgundy and Italy, and giving up 
his two sons as hostages. Hurrying from the 
gloomy prison. Francis passed the Bidasoa. 
and crying, 'I am King again!' hastened to 
Bayonne. Then followed more wars, Charles 
swearing he would make, 'the King of France 
as poor as any gentleman in his dominions ;' 
and it was not until 1544 that the Treaty of 
Crespy settled the wars which had lasted a 
quarter of a century. 

"There 's a sword which belonged to Fran- 
cis down in the Armor}*, and we must go 
there to-morrow and see it and the famous 
pictures in the Gallery, but I do n't believe 
there 's much else you '11 care for. Pessimist." 

"I would care for some pleasant weather 
more than anything." she remarked, rather 
grimly, as we prepared for table d'hote. 



CHAPTER XV. 



PICTURES OLD AND NEW. 



fssss 




.(2S5SS3SSSSS 



HE next day deigned to 
smile, and the Pessimist 
awoke more cheerfully 
inclined than was her 
wont, so we hurried out 
to see our pictures while 
the spirit moved, reach- 
ing the famous gallery- when the light was fine. 
The building is large and low, and was used 
as a barracks during the time of the French 
occupation. Is there any place the poor 
French are not accused of desecrating? From 
the church of Santa Maria della Grazie, in 
Milan, where the Percheron horses defaced 
with their vandal hoofs da Vinci's 'Last Sup- 
per,' to every city in Spain, cries are heard 
about the French. 

Such an array of pictures! We first looked 
at those of the foreign schools, feasting our 
eyes upon the works of Raphael, Titian, 
Guido Reni, Paul Veronese, Tintoretto, Do- 
menichino, Andrea del Sarto, Claude Lor- 

2 *5 



WITH A PESSZAf. 

ra' I Remt Rubens. Van 

Dyke. Correggio. Wat! Wouvermans, and 

Teniers. 

-ped and sat down- 
it do y member?'* asked the Pes- 
sir 

: Rapha La Perla.' and 

7 I - 5 V 

3f the -Lilip II. said it was the pearl 

of all his picture : _ t many think it was 
called. 'La from the tir :er among 

thousand 
dollars, and was bought from the short-sighted 
P e crown effects of 

poor Charles I. of England. 

Raphael for the E 
derigo Gonzaga of >! and is one of 

the >orks, 

■ ' " - 
Somebo: the finest ec 

e wot'. 
' The great emperor is represented on he 
ba pearec Muhl- 

berg. and the armor he m -neria 

now. Titian nt for several times at 

gsburg to p:, i emperor's portrait; and 

he - to have h . ear conception of t. 

character of that wonderful man. for perft 
comprehension of act s Wi ia 

stroke of the artist's brush. 



PICTURES OLD AXD XEW. 217 

"I like this picture far better than 'La 
Gloria,' though that is considered Titian's 
masterpiece." 

"It seems to me that Charles V. never did 
anything but fight," said the Pessimist. 

"He did one pretty thing, if he never did 
anything else. Do you remember Longfel- 
low's poem about him? He was encamped 
before a beleagured Flemish city, and a swal- 
low built its nest at the top of the royal 
tent. 

"The courtiers started to dislodge it, but 
the emperor stayed the daring hand. 

" ' Let no hand the bird molest,' 
Said he solemnly, ' Xor hurt her! ' 

Adding then by way of jest, 

'Golondrina is my guest, 

'T is the wife of some deserter.' 

"He left the tent standing there, not only 
until the siege was over, but even when he 
returned to Spain. 

" ' So it stood there all alone, 

Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 

Till the brood was fledged and flown, 

Singing o'er those walls of stone 
Which the cannon shot had shattered.' 

"It 's nice to think of that stern old em- 
peror, whom everybody feared, being so gentle 
to the wee birds." 

"We 're all 'building nests in Fame's great 
temple, as in spouts the swallow builds,' " 



2i8 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

quoted the Pessimist. "We do n't always have 
such pleasant things to hear of great people." 

"Now we must go and see the Spanish pic- 
tures," I said. 

"First Muriilo; I suppose the 'Concep- 
tions ' are his best. The greatest is said to 
be the one in the Louvre, but I love them 
all; the misty, vaporoso style, the great, soft, 
dark-eyed Madonnas, the floating Titian hair, 
the blue robes and darling babies, bodiless, 
and floating around airily on wings. 

"Then there is the 'Annunciation,' and the 
lily is fairly pick-able while 'St. John the 
Baptist ' is the dearest little fellow I ever 
saw." 

"•Where is the 'St. Elizabeth?" asked the 
Pessimist. 

"Over in the Academia de San Fernando, 
and there are also the paintings of the dream 
of the Roman noble who founded the church 
of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome. 

"One admires other painters; one laves 
Muriilo, and seems to be closely in touch with 
his tender heart. 

"Now comes the famous portrait of Muriilo 
by Tobar. He was Murillo's best pupil, and 
that he loved his master well shows in the care 
with which he has painted this beautiful por- 
trait. Velazquez's 'Surrender of Breda,' is 
said to be his finest work. There it is. Look 



PICTURES OLD AND XEW. 219 

at the splendid soldiers, and the fine back- 
ground, with Breda in the distance. General 
Spinola is accepting the surrender of the 
heavy Flemish leader with perfect courtesy, and 
his fine, high-bred face is marvelously well- 
done. 

"Vulcan's forge is another famous Velas- 
quez, but I do n't fancy it, though one cannot 
help admiring the masterly handling of the 
subject. 

"The Velasquez which I like the best is 
that of Philip IV. on horseback. The horse 
seems about to step out and prance down the 
room, arching his neck and neighing, and the 
king seems alive, as he sits there against that 
cool blue and green background. To see 
Velasquez's pictures is always to remember 
his figures, and to have them live in one's 
mind forever. 

Now comes Ribera, who was called 'Lo 
Spagnoletto.' Ugh! his pictures give me cold 
shivers. Sombre, fierce, and powerful, some 
of his work reminds me of a dissecting room. 
Do n't let 's look at his pictures, though 
'Jacob's Ladder ' is fine in its strange 
way. 

"De Amicis says, 'Ribera never loved,' 
and yet he draws the eyes to his work with a 
sort of artistic hypnotism. His 'St. Anthony' 
is exquisite. 



220 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

"Goya comes next, Spanish to the finger 
tips, painter of bulls and brigands; an Ara- 
gonese, haughty, fiery, full of genius, paint- 
ing with a ferocious energy in each stroke of 
the brush. His finest work is the huge can- 
vas representing the French soldiers shooting 
down the Spaniards on the fateful second of 
May. The whole picture breathes the spirit 
of fiery patriotism. He seems to have a gory 
head on the very end of his brush, so vivid is 
the painting, but it is superbly handled in 
every detail. Zurbaran is the only one left of 
the great Spaniards, though Alonzo Cano, our 
acquaintance from Granada, Pacheco,— Mur- 
illo's friend — Herrera, Juan de Juanes, and 
many others are represented. 

Zurbaran V St. Peter Nolasco Asleep' is an 
exquisite visionary thing, and has earned for the 
artist the title of The Spanish Caravaggio. M 

"Oh! do let us go. I cannot even think of 
any more," cried the Pessimist, and we hastily 
sought the open air, and went over to the gar- 
den of the Buen Retiro, to rest our tired eyes 
before driving to the Armory. 

The Buen Retiro is one of the finest parks 
in Europe, but we saw only the small and 
pretty garden at the corner of the Alcala, and 
the Salon del Prado, where Philip II. had a 
hunting box called El Cuarto, to which he 
added towers and galleries, making it similar 



PICTURES OLD AND XEW. 221 

to a villa in which he had lived with Queen 
Mary when he was in England. 

We glanced at the Botanical Garden, but 
found it not to be compared to many others, 
so hastened to the Armeria, the finest armory 
in the world. 

'We can see only the exterior of the Royal 
Palace, as the king and queen are occupying 
their apartments, and strangers are not ad- 
mitted; so we shall have to content ourselves 
with a glance at the great pile," I said, and 
we entered the Armory. 

The first impression is that one has sud- 
denly plunged into the Middle Ages. Shields 
hung upon the walls above, and burnished as 
bright as mirrors, reflected the swords and 
hauberks and daggers until it seemed as if 
there were millions of the ferocious weapons. 

''Oh! Pessimist," I cried; "there is Pe- 
layo's sword. Only think of it. He was one 
of the heroes of the ages. When all Spain 
was at the feet of its Moorish conqueror, he, 
with his brave band of only thirty, retired to 
the Pyrenees, and there fought and defeated 
every alien who came to do him battle. Once 
in a difficult pass of the mountains, he over- 
threw a hundred thousand Moors; but that 
was by the aid of Santiago, who appeared 
upon a snow-white charger and fought for 
Pelayo." 



222 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

" Saint James had a way of turning up at 
the right moment, had he not?" asked my 
auditor. 

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Tradition says St. 
James's body was found in Galicia by Bishop 
Theodemir, and because a star stood over the 
place where the grave was, they made a 
shrine, and called it Campus Stella, and the 
saint is called St. Iago de Compostella. 

"Another time when St. Iago made him- 
self prominent was at the battle of Clavijo, in 
which King Ramiro, successor of Alfonso the 
Chaste, distinguished himself. The verse 
says : 

"'A cry went thro' the mountains when the proud Moor 

drew near, 
And trooping to Ramiro came every Christian spear, 
The Blessed Santiago they called upon his name- 
That day began our freedom and wiped away our shame.' 

"I believe the particular cause of dispute 
just then, was the yearly tribute of Christian 
girls to the Moorish harem." 

"There 's your favorite's sword," said the 
Pessimist, pointing to a large and very ancient 
sword, inscribed 'Gonzalo de Cordova.' 

"Isn't it a splendid one? There is a 
weapon which belonged to Bernardo del Car- 
pio. How the schoolboys would thrill if they 
could see that. I do n't suppose the boy 
lives who hasn't recited, 'Bernardo del Car- 



PICTURES OLD AND NEW. 223 

pio ' in his palmy days, with a suspicious 
moisture in his eyes. 

"That Valencian sword belonged to Queen 
Isabella. Look at the motto: ' Nunco veo paz 
Comigo.' That one was Pizarro's, and there 
Cortez's, and here 's the very identical sword 
that the Great Captain had given him by 
King Ferdinand. On that sword, once preg- 
nant with magnificent deeds, the oath of 
allegiance to the Princes of Asturias is taken. 
See, there is an inscription on the gold 
pommel, 'Facta Italics pace,' etc. Gonzalo, 
do n't I wish we were back in your own Cor- 
dova!" 

"There, that will do," said the Pessimist 
sternly. "Whose sword is that with the Per- 
rillo mark?" 

"That 's of a famous make, and this one be- 

onged to Garcilaso de la Vega. It 's said to 

ue the very blade with which he beheaded the 

VIoor in the Vega. I hate seeing these; it 

makes me homesick for Andalucia." 

"Speaking of Granada," said the Pessi- 
mist, "it seems to me this says something 
that will interest you," pointing to a magnifi- 
cent suit of armor, marked, 'Boabdil El Chico, 
El Rey de Granada.' 

I gasped, and speechless with interest, 
ooked at Columbus' armor; thirty-six suits 
)f Charles V., including that which he wore 



224 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

when painted by Titian; Francis the First's 
helmet and shield (Pavian relics), and swords, 
daggers and helmets belonging to nearly every 
important historical character in Spain. 

Then came the baby armor, figures of the 
Infantes in full armor, and last of all we saw 
the votive crowns of the Goths. One with 
the motto, "Svinthilanos Rex offeret," was 
enormously heavy, with gold and precious 
gems. Svinthilic was the twenty-third Yisi- 
gothic King; he reigned in 620 A.D. 

"There is a curious circumstance connected 
with these crowns," I said. 'They were worn 
once, on some grand occasion, and then pre- 
sented to a church as a pious offering. Conde 
says that Moussa ordered four hundred royal 
hostages to accompany him to Syria, and 
these wore upon their heads diadems of gold. 

"When Tarik was confined in the Alcazar 
at Toledo in a secluded room of the royal pal- 
ace, he found twenty-five gold crowns inlaid 
with hyacinths and other precious stones, for 
it was the custom that after the death of a 
king, his crown, with his name, age, and the 
length of his reign engraved upon it, should 
be laid aside there. 

"See those jousting spears and banners, and 
think of tourney and feast and combat ; see 
how the sunlight caresses those silken broid- 



PICTURES OLD AND NEW. 225 

eries, captured from some Turkish pasha at 
Lepanto; look at the jewels in that helmet, 
gleaming no brighter than the renown of its 
heroic wearer!" 

Soon after this the Pessimist and I had a 
vigorous discussion. 

"Are you going to a bull-fight?" I asked. 
She turned on me her glittering eye, and re- 
garded me with stern displeasure. I bore up 
under it as best I could. At last she spoke. 
"I have frequently remarked that your trip to 
Spain seemed to have demagnetized your 
morals, but now, I must say, I am completely 
astonished." 

'Why?" I asked, very meekly. 

"Do you mean to say that you are so lost 
to all womanly dignity as not to realize that 
you have said anything?" 

The Pessimist is a dear, but she was not 
built for dignity. 

The fitness of features is one of my hobbies. 
Majesty goes with Roman noses and tall fig- 
ures; and calm eyes and dignity go together. 
But the combination of a precious pug nose 
an undeniably stout figure, and peppery tem- 
per does not harmonize with statuesque dig- 
nity. The sight of the Pessimist on the high 
horse convulsed me with laughter, and I fairly 
shook as she continued her lecture. 



226 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"I am at a loss for words; utterly at a 
loss," she said sternly. ("You don't seem 
to be," I hazarded, sotto voce.) 

"To think," she went on, "that I have 
harbored in my bosom a viper — a blood- 
thirsty creature who would enjoy seeing dumb 
creatures tortured ! You 're the kind of girl 
who would go to a foot-ball game, I sup- 
pose." 

"I wouldn't," I answered rather nettled, 
"but I must say if a lot of silly men with hair 
like feather dusters want to get themselves 
killed, I haven't the least objection." 

"Oh! very well. Go to your bull-fight, but 
I 'm disappointed in you," she said, a little 
red spot on each pale cheek, and her usually 
pale eyes blazing like coals. 

"But — " I remarked. 

"But nothing," she interrupted. "I can 't 
conceive of your wanting to go." 

"Neither can I," I said composedly. 

The Pessimist stared. 

"But you asked me — " she began. 

"Oh, yes," I said, smiling in the serene 
consciousness of victory," I did ask you, of 
course, but only because I wanted to tell you 
that if you went, it would have to be alone. 
I would n't go if Adonis invited me, and gave 
me a ten-pound box of Huyler's to take." 

It was the first time on record that she had 



PICTURES OLD AND NEW. 227 

been angry with me because I agreed with 
her. 

People who have lived in Madrid are full of 
enthusiasm over the charms of the pleasant 
city and the many delightful bits of interest 
stored away in unfrequented quarters. Un- 
fortunately, travelers see but little of the real 
life of the city, and we were disappointed in 
the Spanish capital after the delights of An- 
dalucia. 

"After all, the modern Spaniard has his 
advantages," I said to the Pessimist, as we 
were leaving Madrid. " He may be ready to 
quarrel if the tail of his dignity is trodden 
upon, but when one is courteous to him he is in- 
comparably agreeable. We have been in Spain 
many weeks, and have traveled entirely alone, 
yet we have never had an unpleasant word 
said to us. We 've not seen a drunken man 
in all this vast city, and noble and peasant are 
alike polite and charitable. 

"If we do n't care for Madrid we must do the 
people justice; if the Madrileilas will wear 
French bonnets instead of picturesque man- 
tillas, let us forgive them these peccadillos, 
and say in their own pretty way, 'Madrileftos, 
vayan Ustcdcs con Dios/' " 



CHAPTER XVI. 
FROM ARAXJTEZ TO SEGOVIA. 







tmajmm ((BMMM 



*a^ 



:-,: :-.ii : 



. : 



hirr.. -gdoms were mere baubles to 3 

poleon. who was a second edition, bound in 
gilt of die French monarch, whose lesson 
read: 4 Je suis 1" etat.* 

"Please don't moralize, but tell me the 
• -: ry : :'- r ; l:: r.. : :.-. . 'r.:r.:r/-'.:v : .r.~ 
i-.--.~~ *. 

'The Order of Santiago had estates on the 
river Tagus, and the finest of these was called 
Aranzuel: and here trees and flowers were 
planted, olives raised, and a villa built for the 
Maestro of the Order. Vie- 

tnam was ceded to the crown, and Queen 
I : . rr.ii. J-.'L'. ■_-.: :--. ::' ':.-.: :iv:r::e 
: -. r i . ~~ : - r 



FROM ARAXJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 229 

"Charles V. and Philip II. improved it, but 
fires destroyed a large part, and Philip V. rebuilt 
it, and made this Spanish palace a veritable 
Fontainebleau. 

"Since the court has left Aranjuez in favor 
of La Granja, so far as any social life is con- 
cerned, it 's as dead as a summer resort in 
winter." 

"What a queer little village," said the Pes- 
simist, "It seems out of place in Spain." 

"It 's Dutch," I answered. "The Marquis 
Grimaldi, when he returned from his embassy 
to the Hague, built it like the cities he had 
seen in Holland. 

"How queer the straight, wide, treeless 
streets; and the houses, two-storied, with 
small windows and low roofs! 

"The Marquis of Salamanca, the man who 
built the first Spanish railway (that of Aran- 
juez), lives in a beautiful villa near here." 

"Where are we going first?" asked my 
companion. 

'To see the palace. That is it, and how 
beautifully situated it is! The avenues of 
elms and sycamores are superb, and those two 
rivers, which meet and form such charming lit- 
tle islands, and have such dashing waterfalls, 
arc the Tagus and Jarama. Do you remem- 
ber Schiller talks in Don Carlos about 'Die 
schbnen Tagc in Aranjuez f % 



230 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"I don't know Schiller, " said the Pessi- 
mist. 

''Neither do I," I answered with exemplary 
frankness; "I read that in the guide-book. 
The palace is built of brick, and seems more 
like a fortress than a royal dwelling. 

"We must hurry and see the interior, be- 
cause the gardens will take almost all of our 
time. 

"The porcelain room is the chief sight. 
There! Is not that magnificent? The whole 
wall is lined with the finest Capo di Monti por- 
celain in high relief. 

"Then come two rooms like our beloved 
Alhambra, and in the chapel Titian's magnifi- 
cent 'Annunciation,' presented by him to 
Charles V. There 's another palace, the Casa 
del Labrador, with a balustrade containing fif- 
teen thousand dollars worth of gold, doors 
which unlock with silver keys, and a score of 
costly novelties useless and extravagant. Now, 
for the gardens, said to be as fine as any in 
the world, though those of La Granja are 
finer. " 

The scenery is varied, for there is a fine 
park, large in extent, and superb in beauty. 
Avenues of trees, with their branches forming 
arcades; shrubs, flowers, and the Tagus flow- 
ing along, its torrent now confined to form a 
lake, now bubbling over masked cataracts; 



FROM ARANJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 231 

vases, statues, fountains and wonderful flow- 
ers, and vines from all parts of the world. 

Then there is the landscape gardening in 
the Italian style; and stiff as this usually is, 
the natural grace of the Spaniard shows itself 
in the arrangement of the wonderful flower 
beds. These are masses of harmonizing hues, 
with small yew trees trimmed into green balls 
like Noah's Ark trees, myrtle hedges, and 
carefully cut borders. 

These are interspersed with fountains, of 
which one notices that of Hercules, with its 
famous columns of Calpe and Abyla (Gibraltar 
and Ceuta), and the fountain of Bacchus. 

In the middle of the garden, about the Casa 
del Labrador, the trees are especially fine; 
there are gigantic Lebanon cedars, elms as 
large as those at the Alhambra; kiosks, grot- 
toes, and labyrinths abound, and in every 
direction the eye rests upon something new 
or strange or beautiful. 

The crown paddocks on the banks of the 
Tagus are filled with horses of the famous 
Aranjuez breed, splendid cream-colored crea- 
tures. 

Around the gardens are vineyards; but the 
wine made here is not especially good, 
although the great Bodegas made by Charles 
III., in 1788, were erected on a magnificent 
scale. 



232 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Wandering through walks and groves, 
heavy with flower scents and vocal with the 
music of the bird orchestras, one makes in- 
vidious comparisons between these gardens 
and those of Calderon at Granada or the 
Alcazar at Seville, where nature is left to 
wander at her own sweet will, aided, but not 
coerced by the skillful hand of man. 

One thinks also of all the historical person- 
ages who have wandered here; of Charles V., 
dreaming perhaps of that labyrinth at Seville 
which he was to order to be made. When his 
head gardener said he would plant it with 
myrtle, and 'twould take five years to grow, 
the sickly emperor exclaimed fretfully, il Dios! 
Man, five years is a life-time!" 

Here in the Pare des Cerfs, tradition says 
that another Charles shut up his family, and 
made them learn Paters and Aves for a pas- 
time. 

Here wandered Philip the Fifth, dreaming 
of gay France, and the golden age of Louis 
Quatorze; and he tried to turn the Spanish 
gardens into French ones, a la Versailles. He 
could not do it any more than he could move 
the haughty Dons over whom he had come to 
rule, and turn them into French dandies, gay 
and licentious. 

The Pessimist and I very much enjoyed 
Aranjuez. Some one says, "A friend is one 



FROM ARANJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 233 

to whom one likes to say, ' ' Do you remember ?' ' 
and my friend and I stored up many things 
over which to talk in future days. 

After Aranjuez one naturally thinks of La 
Granja; and thither we turned our steps, eager 
to compare the two places, rivals in many 
ways. 

La Granja is on the Segovian railway, and 
lies among the mountains, snow-capped and 
filled with splendid gorges; and a visit there is 
a treat, as the scenery is marvelously beauti- 
ful. 

It is called also San Ildefonso; and here 
Philip V. conceived the idea of building a pal- 
ace which should surpass Versailles, and he 
employed many celebrated architects to model 
the structure ; he, died, however, soon after it 
was completed. The court comes out to the 
palace every year for the months of July, 
August, and September. The palace itself is 
not remarkable ; the apartments are light, airy 
and modern, while on the lower floor is a col- 
lection of statues and antiquities made by 
Queen Christina of Sweden. 

The gardens are what every one comes to 
see, and the Pessimist and I grew very enthu- 
siastic over them. As we wandered about, our 
eyes were fairly dazzled by the fountains, 
twenty-six in number, and I exclaimed with 
wonder over the remarkable Cascade Cenador, 



234 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPA IX. 

which is a huge sheet of water glistening in 
the sunshine, and sparkling like a mass of 
brilliants in a silver setting. 

"Look, Pessimist!" I exclaimed, "there is 
the Fucntc dc las Ranas (of the frogs); and ^ 
see how curiously the creatures have adapted 
themselves to the idea of the sculptor! 

"The next is El Canastillo an immense 
basket of fruit and flowers from which start 
forty water jets, rising seventy-five feet into 
the air. It is very wonderful, but I like my 
fountain of Lindaraja better." 

"Oh, you 're determined not to like any- 
thing better than Andalucia," said the Pessi- 
mist. "As for me, I think this garden is the 
most superb in the world. Which is Philip 
the Fifth's fountain?" 

"He made several of them, but the Bafios 
dc Diana is the one he liked best. When it 
all finished, and playing for the first time, 
he stopped to see it, and said: 'It has cost me 
three millions, but for three minutes I have 
been amused !' 

"Only fancy having to pay a million a min- 
ute for your amusement. At that rate, I 
should be amused for about one-fortieth of a 
minute in all my lifetime." 

'He ought to have had you with him," 
said the Pessimist grimly. 

"Thank you, Pessimist," I answered, "I 



FROM ARAXJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 235 

suppose you mean that for a compliment, but 
I 'm not ready for cap and bells yet, nor do I 
pose as Mark Twain's monkey. 

"There 's something that ought to make 
your patriotic breast beat with joy. Look! 
Among those superb statues of Daphne, 
Apollo, and Lucretia, is one of America." 

"I 'm having too nice a time to be patri- 
otic," said the Pessimist. 

"What! the Pessimist enjoying herself! 
Mirabile dictu! Hurrah for La Granja!" I 
exclaimed wildly. 

"Be quiet, the guard is looking at you, and 
you '11 be arrested for a Cuban sympathizer," 
said my friend sternly. "Where did La Granja 
get its name?" 

"It means grange or farm-house, and was 
little more than that when Philip V. bought it 
from the monks of El Paral. 

"Now, it 's time we went to get lunch, at 
that nice, clean fonda, for I 'm hungry enough 
to eat my words." 

"It 's lucky there 's a prospect of lunch- 
eon," said the Pessimist, "for I 'd not like to 
be near when you were forced to do such a 
thing." 

"Now, for Segovia," I cried, as, refreshed 
with a dainty dejeuner, we hurried to the 
train. "It is but five miles away, and as 
different from what we have seen as Goth 



236 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

from Moor. Yet, it has a charm of its own ; 
and who do you think built it?" 

"Haven't an idea," said the Pessimist. 

"First it was a Roman villa, but no less a 
person than Satan himself is said to have as- 
sisted at the beautifying of stern Segovia." 

"What is that huge thing looming up in 
the distance?" asked my friend. 

"That is the great Segovian aqueduct, 
said to have been made by Trajan. It carries 
water into the city from the Sierra Fonfria, 
nine miles away. It 's like a giant's bridge, — 
sixty-nine and one-half miles long, made of 
huge blocks of gray granite, joined without 
cement. See what beautiful vistas and pic- 
tures are formed through the archways, one 
hundred and two feet high. Ordinary people 
say it was built by one Licinus, a Roman, but 
you and I know better, for here is the true story. 

"One fine day Monsieur le Diable saw a fair 
Segoviana drawing water from the river, and 
knowing she was as indolent as fair, he whis- 
pered, 'What wilt thou give to the man who 
brings thy river to thee, fairest maid?' 

"'Myself,' she answered, and laughed, 
thinking the king's fool had come to jest with 
her. Imagine her dismay, next day when she 
awoke, to find the aqueduct built in a single 
night, and a stream of purest water running 
into her kitchen. 



FROM ARANJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 237 

"The devil, while he does not always keep 
his promises as well as in this case, expects us 
to keep ours, and the Segovian maiden sold 
her soul to his Satanic Majesty for the great 
aqueduct." 

"There 's more sense in that than in many 
of your tales," said the Pessimist, "for this is 
such a wonderful piece of engineering, I do n't 
wonder the simple peasants thought it took a 
superhuman agency to manage it." 

"I like Segovia already. I can 't wait to 
find a hotel. Let 's give our luggage to the 
first porter we see, and begin to go about at 
once. The hotels are sure to be poor, and 
the sights are not." 

For once the Pessimist acquiesced, without 
a grumble, in what I said, and we wandered 
about the city, until the stars came and drove 
us to seek other shelter than the soft Castilian 
night. 

Segovia is beautiful. It is impossible to 
picture anything quainter than its stern walls, 
narrow streets, tiled roofs, churches, convents, 
granite houses with iron balconies, and little 
dabs of trees, trying hard to grow, though 
evidently much oppressed by the spirit of the 
past, which breathing upon them, deadens the 
air in which they live. 

Some one compares Segovia, aptly, to a 
noble Don, poverty-stricken, yet haughtily 



*3 8 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

drawing about him like a cloak, the tattered 
remnants of his past glories. 

The city lies upon a hill-side, and is out- 
lined against the noble arches of the aqueduct, 
beyond which lie green slopes, crowned with 
hills, and the snowy Sierra de Guadarrama in 
the background. 

"The Alcazar is one of the most perfect 
specimens of the fortress-castle, which I have 
ever seen." I said to the Pessimist, as we 
stood upon the slope which leads to the cas- 
tellated towers, with tiny turrets like pepp. 
pots, perching around the top. 

"It was built by Alfonso the Learned, in the 
eleventh century, and here he wrote several of 
his books. All manner of royalty has lived 
here— even Charles I. of England, when he 
visited Spain, in 1623. 

"Gil Bias was confined in the dungeons, 
which are fearfully deep and dark. Is not the 
castle striking? See how its proud towers 
reach aloft, while the base, firmly seated on a 
rocky promontory seeks the ravine watered by 
the Eresma. Let us go in and see the 
Moorish-Gothic rooms," and we entered un- 
der the fine gateway. 

Look at the shields of Castile with Moor- 
characters emblazoned on them," said the 
Pessimist. '-It looks odd enough, and there 



FROM ARANJUBZ TO SEGOVIA. 239 

arc stalactite ceilings like those in the Hall of 
Justice in the Alhambra." 

"It 's beautiful," I answered. "Here is the 
Pieza del Cordon, so-called because King Al- 
fonso used to study here ; and one day, while 
he was conjecturing as to whether the sun 
really did move around the earth or not, there 
came a blinding flash of lightning. It made 
the king feci that the heavens disapproved of 
his scientific research, and he had the cord of 
St. Francis carved in stone around the room." 

"Then Galileo was not the originator of his 
theory, after all," said my friend. "What 
else happened in the Alcazar?" 

"Here, in the Sala de los Reyes, in 1326, a 
young court lady let the Infante Don Pedro 
fall out of the window into the river. She 
was promptly beheaded; and there 's a slab in 
the Alcazar chapel, representing the baby 
prince with a sword in his hand." 

"Carelessness was a crime in those days," 
said the Pessimist, "and if people made the 
excuse, 'I forgot,' I fancy they were not likely 
to have a chance to say it a second time." 

Another person who was held in durance 
vile in the castle was the prime minister of 
Philip V.,"' I said. "He was the Duke de 
Riperda, a Hollander, and became a natural- 
ized Spaniard. Escaping from the Alcazar, 



240 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

he turned Protestant, then Mussulman, was 
made a Bashaw and Generalissimo by the King 
of Morocco, and finally died in abject poverty 
near Tangier." 

"Are we to go to the cathedral now?" 
asked my friend, and as I responded in the 
affirmative we soon reached the quaint build- 
ing, erected in 1525, by the same architects 
who built the Salamanca cathedral. 

How curiously the buttresses flank the 
rounded end of the building, and the carved 
pinnacles fairly spring aloft. It is Gothic, but 
a sturdier style than the Milan cathedral, less 
delicate, more massive, and far more suitable 
to the stone of which it is built. 

The interior is plain, light and simple, with 
beautiful stained glass and a superb rctablo by 
Juan de Juni. 

"Who said there were no sculptors in 
Spain!" I exclaimed. "This 'Descent from the 
Cross ' is one of the most superb things I have 
ever seen. Our Lord looks divine, and yet how 
the dear human body has suffered ! TheBlessed 
Virgin's heart seems utterly rent with grief, 
and all the figures are expressive, yet nowhere 
is the realistic side brought out too painfully." 

Fairest of all the Segovian churches is lovely 
San Esteban, close by the cathedral, upon the 
Plaza de San Esteban. 

Never shall I forget that perfect tower, dat- 



FROM ARANJUEZ TO SEGOVIA. 24 1 

ing from the thirteenth century, and rising in 
five arcaded tiers, its slender arches, pointed 
and rounded, giving a glimpse of heaven's 
blue, and the quaint steeple, with its tiny 
dormer windows peering out like eyes. It is 
unique and most charming. 

Below the tower is a corrcdor or open clois- 
ter running along the south side, and its 
slender shafts are graceful beyond description. 

There are curious tombs, too, and the Pes- 
simist and I wandered long among them, won- 
dering at the sculptured faces, so calm and 
peaceful now, yet of those whose lives had 
been turbulent enough. 

" His bones are dust, 

And his good sword rust. 

His soul is with the saints, we trust," 

I quoted, as we left San Esteban, and slowly 
wandered on our way through the deepening 
twilight to our hotel. 

"Pessimist, how do you like Segovia?" 

"Did you notice the peasant before the big 
crucifix in San Esteban?" she asked, not 
replying to my question. 

"What of her?" I queried. 

"She was the most beautiful creature I ever 
saw," said my friend with unwonted enthu- 
siasm. The Pessimist was scarcely given to 
admiring other women. "She was dressed so 
strangely. A short skirt showed her little feet, 



242 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

an apron of striped goods in soft colors covered 
the front of her dress, a kerchief was about her 
throat, and over her dark hair, which curled 
down over her ears, was a heavy black hood 
which lay upon her shoulders. She was saying 
her rosary, and the light from the altar lamp 
fell upon her face. It was the most perfect 
Spanish face I 'd seen since we landed at Cadiz." 
"The women here are nearly always beauti- 
ful, and are grave and sweet, and little like 
their impetuous southern sisters," I said. "I 
wish I had seen your beauty. I admire the 
dignified northern type of Old Castile far more 
than the sensuous Madrid cJiula, the languor- 
ous Valenciana or gay Sevilliana. 

Women are a great study everywhere, but 
I do n't see how you can think of petticoats 
in the midst of the architecture of Segovia, 
Gothic, pure, massive, splendid ! This Gothic 
poetry in stone raises my mind heavenward, 
and fills me with lofty thoughts. 

Like forest's interlacing boughs 

The columns arch toward Heaven, 
And with aspiring pinnacles, 

The sky's pure blue is riven: 
My soul mounts up these stony steps 

Reaching a loftier height, 
Searching through carven traceries 

The Heaven's perfect light, — 

I murmured, but the Pessimist answered: 
"I am hungry. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



THE ESCORIAL AND AVILA. 







^m^mWBSsT 



OME one says, 'To under- 
stand the Escorial one 
must have studied deeply 
the character of its 
founder/ ' I said as we 
bumped along in the 
omnibus which carried us 
from the station to the village of Escorial. 

''Who was the founder, and why must one 
know his character?" asked the Pessimist. 

"Philip II. built it in 1565, but the idea was 
conceived long before. The Spaniards of that 
day were peculiarly religious, almost morbid in 
their devotion. The mind of Juana la Loca, 
daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, was unbal- 
anced, if she was not altogether insane, and, as 
was natural from her temperament and race, 
her unhinged mental faculties brooded over 
religion. Charles V., her son, great emperor 
as he was, inherited much of her enthusiasm, 
which showed itself chiefly in his never failing 
desire to retire into a monastery, 

2 43 



244 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

"An English writer says, 'Spain must be 
judged by the east, never by the north;' and 
the indolence of the eastern sultans has often 
obtruded itself into the nature of the Spanish 
sovereign. 

"In the quiet of the royal palace the em- 
peror dreamed dreams, and saw visions of the 
more perfect seclusion of the cloisters, and his 
natural trend toward piety often led him to 
seek the aid of the church when the cares of 
the state became too great. 

"Before his death the emperor expressed a 
wish to his son Philip to have a burial place 
for himself and his descendants, and in accord- 
ance with his father's desire, which tallied so 
well with his own ideas, Philip built the 
Escorial. 

"There was yet another motive. Philip's 
patron was St. Lawrence, to whose interven- 
tion he ascribed the victory of San Quintin, 
which occurred on the feast of St. Lawrence, 
1557. He gives his reasons at length in his 
own words, which" — But here the omnibus, 
drawn by mules, bumped so violently that 
conversation was impossible, and I was com- 
pelled to look at the wild scenery in silence. 

The Guadarramas, rocky, and clad with 
pines, sloped down to the plain, which 
stretched far away to meet the sky. 

Juan Bautista de Toledo was the architect 



THE ESCORIAL AND AVI LA. 245 

of the great palace of the Escorial, but Philip 
was the leading spirit in the enterprise. He 
often came from Madrid to watch the progress 
of the building which is wonderfully simple, 
grand and massive. It was twenty-one years 
in building, and cost six million ducats. 

Built in the form of a parallelogram, it is 
divided into many courts, the convent and 
offices, the rooms of the royal household, 
the cloisters and the church. All about the 
building cluster low houses, perfectly white, 
with red-tiled roofs, over which the soft green 
of the trees casts swaying shadows. 

We went first to see the church whose huge 
cupola rises among its towers, a fine specimen 
of Graeco-Roman architecture. 

"Tell me about it," said the Pessimist, as 
we entered the nave and looked about us at 
Doric columns and arcades. 

"Oh! I can't," I said; "it's too big to 
talk about. There are numberless pictures by 
everybody, of saints and holy people, but 
they 're mostly people I 'm not acquainted 
with. In that little chapel is the tomb of the 
late Queen Mercedes, but we really have n't 
time to see it all. It would take weeks. 
Here is the Capella Mayor. The altar is 
superb, of marble and inlaid jasper, and the 
altar-piece is one whole piece of jasper. 

"The doors leading into the Sagrario are 



246 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

solid mahogany, and the rclicario is one of the 
finest in Spain. General Houssaye and his 
troops stole most of the valuable things, but 
those still remaining are very wonderful. 

"On either side the altar are the oratorios 
of dark marble, for the use of the royal family 
when at Mass. Those figures on the right- 
hand side of the altar are effigies of the kings 
and queens. Charles V. is kneeling on a cush- 
ion, his hands raised in prayer, his thin face 
looking sad, yet with a rapt expression. Be- 
side him is Isabella his wife, and behind are 
his daughter Maria and his sisters Eleonora 
and Maria. 

"Under the high altar was built the Pan- 
theon, in fulfilment of the wish of Philip II., 
that Mass might be said over the bodies of the 
kings. Come, let us go down and see the 
tombs and have it over." 

'You may go; I will wait here," said the 
Pessimist. "It makes me uncomfortable to 
see such things." 

No amount of urging could shake her deci- 
sion, so I went alone down the marble steps. 
Cold, darkness and oppressive silence met me, 
and my eyes could scarce penetrate the gloom 
to distinguish the royal tombs. Indeed, one 
could hardly call them tombs. On the eight- 
sided room are placed in rows of niches the 
marble caskets for kings and mothers of kings 



THE ESCORIAL AND A VILA. 247 

only. All are neatly labeled like specimens 
in a scientific exhibit, and the effect is grew- 
some rather than solemn. 

After a hasty glance at the Pantcon dc los 
Infantes, a new room in black and white mar- 
ble, pure and cold, where are buried the lesser 
princes, I hurried back to the Pessimist, glad 
to be above ground again. 

"How did you like it?" asked my friend. 

"Not at all. Let 's see something cheer- 
ful," I answered. "What did you see while 
I was gone?" 

"The room where Philip II. died," she said. 
"A little bit of a stuffy place it is, and the one 
he lived in is not much better." 

"He had the simplest tastes imaginable," I 
said. "Let 's go to the choir now." 

We went through the sacristy, and stopped 
to glance at the pictures, — Zurbaran's Ri- 
bera's, Guido Reni's, and the great "Santa 
Forma ' (Holy Wafer), a strange painting, 
sketched by Rizzi, and finished by Claudio 
Coello. The subject is the ceremony which 
took place in this very spot when Charles II. 
was here. 

The figures are portraits: Charles, his cour- 
tiers, the Dukes of Medinaceli and Pastrana, 
and many other notables. The procession was 
in honor of the holy wafer kept upon the altar, 
which wafer is said to have shed real drops 



WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

of blood when rudely trampled upon by 
^nglians at Gorcum in Holland, and to have 
been | ed and given by the Emperor 

Rudolph II. to Philip II. The picture is set 
jperb caned marble pillars, the workman- 
ship of which is beautiful beyond description. 
In the sacristy were fine specimens of em- 
broider)' so delicate as even to illustrate in 
silk scenes from the Bible. Embroidery* was 
a fine art in Spa: ecially in Ciudad- 

Rodrigo, and some of the robes and vestments 
cost two hundred thousand dollars. 

By the time we reached the choir every 
faculty was fatigued beyond endurar.: 
our nerves were at tension, and we felt we 
must see all the glories which unfolded before 
our wondering gaze. 

Here were the plain, dark choir stalls, two 
rows, each stall perfect in its simpli: ade 

of eb<: Jar or box- wood. In a small 

stall knelt Philip II. at prayer when a messen- 
ger brought him the glorious news of the vic- 
tory of Lepanto. The king's face did not 
n change in expression ; he went right on 
with his p: 

In one of the frescoes of the ceiling the 
artist painted his own head, and a witty con- 
temporary, Siguenzo, said that he was glad to 
see the painter had put himself in Paraci 
now, for he was not likely to get there in 



THE ESCORT AL AND AVI LA. 249 

reality, since he was too much given to the 
love of money. 

The crystal chandelier — injured by the 
French — was made in Milan, and is still a fine 
example of Italian glass. 

The reading desk is a great golden eagle, 
carrying upon its back the gridiron of Saint 
Lawrence, after whom the Escorial was named. 

"Convent next, then palace," I said, with 
renewed energy. "Come, Pessimist, you can 
rest to-night." 

"I 'm sorry to miss it, and to be always 
resting, but I really think you '11 have to 
leave me here, and go on with the guide. 
When I get rested I '11 see what I can, but I 
do n't want to keep you," and she sat down 
determinedly. I was sorry for her fatigue, 
yet glad to feel I could wander at will, and 
neither talk nor explain. 

I started off to see the convent, which one 
enters from the church through the Sala dc 
Sccrctos (Hall of Secrets). 

'What whispers have been heard here," I 
said to myself as I slowly wandered through 
the room, in any part of which the least sound 
can be heard, owing to the form of the ceil- 
ing. I fell to idly speculating as to whether 
one really could hear, and as to what quaint 
tales of love or vengeance might have been 
thwarted through the listening walls. 



WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

Noticing two Spaniards at the far end of 
the room, who talking in low tones, I 

thoughtlessly paused a moment to see if I 
could hear them spea 

Alas! the old proverb about listeners 
proved true, for one man said to the other, in 
Spanish : 

'What 's the senorita by the door. English 
or American 

"An American." said the companion. 
"They go about alone; the English never 

"But why? Is it because they have no 
husbands?" asked his friend. 

The second one shrugged his shoulder 

"It is said." he replied, "that their hus- 
bands stay at home and work, and the sefioras 
fly from one thing to another, like bees. 
Some of them are so pretty it is dangerous, 
though they never seem to see a man. This 
one is not half bad, but there are prettier," 
a glance which took me in from head to 
foot. 

I retired from the scene with what equa- 
nimity I could muster, and felt convinced that 
one could hear in the chamber of secrets. 

Through the Doric cloister and the Patio 
de los Evangelistos I passed into the Sala de 
Capitulos (Chapter House'i. and dallied over 
the paint: hich line the walls. There 

are scores of pictures, among them Titian's 



THE ESCORT AL AND AVI LA. 251 

somber "Martyrdom of San Lorenzo," 
though the light in the chapel where this 
hangs is so poor that one can have no ade- 
quate idea of its artistic merit. 

The library of the Escorial had long been 
the goal of my ambition, and when I stood 
within that magnificent room, beneath the 
vaulted ceiling, painted with subjects personi- 
fying the arts and sciences; when I saw the 
ebony, cedar and orange-wood cases, the mar- 
ble pavement, the jasper reading tables, and 
then, books, books, books, like Dominie 
Sampson, I could but cry, "Prodigious!" and 
words could not tell the longing which arose 
within me to stay right there forever and a 
day, and study everything. 

Philip's ambition to have the handsomest 
convent, the handsomest church, and the 
handsomest palace in the world, may or may 
not have been gratified, for other places com- 
pare favorably with his efforts in those lines. 
But, as to the library, it is beyond praise. 
There are about sixty thousand volumes, 
bound in black or purple leather, in nearly 
every known tongue. Strange as it may ap- 
pear, of all the fine collections that of Arab 
literature is the poorest, whether from neglect 
or Spanish prejudice against the Moors, I 
cannot say. Among the rarest books is the 
"Codice Aurco," containing the gospels of 



252 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, in solid gold 
letters. It was begun by order of Conrad II., 
the German emperor, and not completed 
until the eleventh century, and the illuminat- 
ing is the finest in the world. 

Here were the Spanish chronicles from the 
earliest days, when they were the only history 
or literature written, and they present to the 
reader a perfect and most interesting picture 
of the times. 

The palace is at the northeastern angle of 
the building, and at the present date the in- 
terior is very different from that which what its 
founder originally intended. 

"I wish but for a cell in the palace I have 
built for God," said Philip, and the fitting up 
of the royal dwelling was plain to a fault. 

Since his demise, his successors have not 
agreed with his severe tastes, and the walls 
are magnificently hung in tapestry from de- 
signs of Goya, Teniers, and Bayeu. The sub- 
jects chosen are suitable, and neither frying 
saints nor stewing martyrs adorn the walls, as 
is often the case with Spanish art. 

Philip's room remains as he left it; with a 
few pieces of plain furniture and the chair in 
which he sat where he could see the chapel, 
and hear the monks at matins or at even song. 
His religion gave him the strength to endure 
his sufferings with superhuman patience, and 



THE ESCORIAL AND AVILA. 253 

the stern, morose man, after months of tor- 
ture, died calmly and quietly, his father's 
crucifix in his hand. 

I found little else of especial interest in the 
palace save in the Sala de las Ratallas (Hall of 
Battles), the paintings of war scenes by 
Granello and Fabricio. These are absorbing to 
one who studies old costumes and armor, and I 
could have spent hours in enjoying each detail. 

There arose before my eyes a pitiful picture 
of the patient Pessimist, awaiting my return, 
and I hastened back to find her talking to a 
custodian, who had whiled away her time 
with legends galore. 

"What do you think of the Escorial?" she 
asked. 

"I have heard it talked of all my life, and 
everybody calls it something different. The 
commonest synonym is 'the Leviathan of 
Architecture,' but why it is compared to Job's 
crocodile I can 't tell. Some one else says it 
is 'the grandest and gloomiest failure of 
modern times;' another speaks of it as 'no 
building at all, but the reflex of Philip's 
brooding, gloomy mind.' De Amicis says 
one should be grateful every day that one 
does not have to live in the Escorial. I am at 
a loss what to think of it, now that I have 
seen it; far more so than before I had been 
there at all. 



254 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

' ' Philip said to Herrera, when telling him 
how to continue Bautista de Toledo's work, 
that he wished him to make it, 'simple in 
form, severe in style, noble without arrogance, 
majestic without ostentation, having always 
present that the edifice is to be built for 
the glory of God, and of our holy Catholic 
faith, and to be a temple, a cloister, and a 
tomb.' 

"The more I think of it, the more I seem 
to see into Philip's mind. Morbid, melan- 
choly and stern, he was thoroughly just, and 
his idea of God was of His justice and gran- 
deur; and the Escorial, gloomy, somber, rising 
in stern simplicity toward heaven, as the 
thoughts of its founder rose, is an exponent 
of the soul of the strange king, who kept not 
only his own subjects, but half of Europe 
writhing in anxiety, as to what he would in- 
dulge in next." 

"What about Don Carlos?" asked the Pes- 
simist. 

"Nobody will ever really know how he 
died," I answered; "whether he pined away 
for love of his stepmother, lovely Elizabeth of 
Valois, or of a fever from over-eating (for he 
was a fearful glutton), or in a prison, or 
whether his father killed him. Poems and 
plays have been written about him and his 
character, but the manner of his death will 



THE ES CO RIAL AND AVI LA. 255 

always be one of the things on which to 
speculate. 

"They do say that if one opened his casket 
in the Pantheon, his body would be found be- 
headed, but whether because of treason to his 
father, or because that half-crazed man posed 
as Abraham sacrificing Isaac, quicii sabe ? 
After all, what difference does it make how we 
die'" 

"The dark corridors haunt me," said my 
friend, "and the Escorial is like a ghost-story 
to a child in the dark; she would n't miss it 
for anything, and it is delightfully awful, but 
it makes her shiver ever afterward to think of 
it." 

"Them's my sentiments!" I replied 
slangily. "I 'm glad we 're going to Avila." 

The train sped swiftly along, into tunnels, 
and over the mountains until we reached the 
picturesque town which seemed like a castle 
upon a rock, for its Gothic walls and towers 
rise upon an isolated hill from crags scarcely 
less bold in outline. It is one of the most 
persistently old cities in the world, and refuses 
to grow young. 

Granada is in its second childhood, and Gar- 
zon, the photographer there, has even a 
modern telephone; but Avila, Gallio-like, 
careth for none of those things. 

"All sorts of fables exist about the origin of 



256 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

this rugged city," I said to my friend as we 
rambled about the streets. 

11 Somebody says that one of the many 
Herculeses, who was a King of Spain, married 
Abula, an African princess, and their son 
founded Avila. However, Count Don Ramon, 
son-in-law of Alfonso VI., repeopled it in 
1088, and the fine walls are a good sample of 
the military defenses of the eleventh cen- 
tury. 

"It 's almost as gloomy as the Escorial," 
said the Pessimist. 

''That 's because everything is made of 
dark granite," I replied. 

"Come, let us hurry and see the cathedral, 
for we 've no time to waste here, but must 
hasten." 

The cathedral is as massive as a fortress, 
and a part of the apse absolutely forms a por- 
tion of the city walls. It was begun in 109 1, 
and was many years in building. The in- 
terior is a very pure Gothic, though spoiled 
by some so-called restorations. 

There are fine carved portals in granite, the 
saints represented as watching over the foot- 
steps of those entering. The carving in stone 
is one of the best examples in Spain, espe- 
cially that over the north door-way, repre- 
senting the coronation of the Blessed Virgin. 

The stained glass is in the soft hues, which 



THE ESCORIAL AND AVILA. 257 

seem to have been so easily attained in the 
Middle Ages, and which are almost unattain- 
able now, those tints which make the modern 
artificer green with envy to think that the 
secret of their production is lost. 

"It does not seem like a church," I said, as 
we wandered about the lofty aisles. "It is so 
like the keep of a castle that one wants to 
cry, 'What, ho! Warder!' and expects to see 
shields and hauberks, rather than beads and 
missals." 

"I don't like it," said the Pessimist. 
"Let 's go somewhere else." 

Obediently I led her away, and next we 
saw the church of Santo Tomas, a mile out of 
the city, where lies buried little Prince Juan. 

"He was the only son of Ferdinand and 
Isabella," I said, "and only think how many 
hopes are buried here. What a beautiful 
tomb! He was so young, so good, so fair, if 
the old chronicles can be believed. His marble 
effigy shows these traits in his expression. 

"His boyish face wears a look of knightly 
resolve and earnestness. He had been 
knighted for prowess on the field of battle, as 
the iron gauntlets show, since none but knights 
could wear them. How calm and sweet he 
looks! The Infantes' circle scarcely touches 
that brow o'er which the cares of life had 
passed but lightly. 



258 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

"It nearly broke his mother's heart, and 
too, his stern father's, for Juan was their idol, 
and all their hopes centered in him, since the 
Infanta Juana was insane. One seems to feel 
the keenness of their loss at this tomb. I 
wonder if any one sorrowed over Isabella's 
tomb as she sorrowed here? Not Ferdinand, 
surely, for he was not even constant to her 
memory. Ah ! the mother love is the most 
wonderful thing on earth, after all." 

The Pessimist looked sad, too, and we both 
moved away from the beautiful tomb in the 
silence which a wave of sentiment enforces. 

The chief reason for visiting Avila is to see 
the Santa Casa, the birthplace of Saint Ter- 
esa, and the Pessimist and I went to the 
southwest gate outside the walls where the 
convent stands. She was a strange character, 
"Teresa of Jesus," as she is called, — strange 
yet noble, with the nobility a great devotion 
always gives an unselfish nature. 

Where the Guadarramas separate the Doero 
and Tagus in the south of Old Castile, Saint 
Teresa was born, in the rock-girt city of Avila, 
called in early days, "de los Caballeros, " from 
the knights who gathered here to fight for 
king and religion against the Moors. 

In later days the city has borne another 
name, "Avila Cantos y Santos," (stones and 
saints); and this strange nomenclature arises 



THE BSCORIAL AND AVI LA. 259 

from the Toros de Guisando, huge granite 
blocks existing In the country round, bearing 
some resemblance to bulls 1 hence toros •, and 
connected in some strange way known only to 
the intricacies of the peasant's mind, with the 
saints for whom Avila is famous. 

'"Near the Dominican monaster}-, early in 
the sixteenth century, there stood in the 

^ed street of Avila the house of Don 
Alonzo Sanchez de Cepeda," I said to the 
Pessimist. "He was a Castilian knight of 
high lineage, his arms, still over the door, bear- 
ing the lion surrounded by eight crosses of 
Saint Andrew, granted to a noble Sanchez in 
memory of the capture of Balza from the 
Moors on St. Andrew's Day, 1227. In this 
quaint, mediaeval house on the twenty-eighth 
of March, 15 15, was born Teresa, and here 
she grew to womanhood, bright, graceful, 
playful, modest, and noted for her great good 
sense. She gives in her own words a beau- 
tiful picture of her home life, simple and nat- 
ural as it v. 

4 T had a father and a mother who feared 
God,' she says, 'and my father was much 
given to the reading of good books, and had 
them in Spanish so that his children might 

I them. He would not keep slaves, and 
said he could not endure the pain of seeing 
that they were not free.' 



2DO WITH A PESSIMIST FN SPAIX. 

"A fair picture of the times, and a noble 
family. The brothers, all save one, who en- 
tered religion the same day as his sister, 
served in the wars, loyal to their country and 
king, brave and noble. Teresa, at seven, 
desired to go to Morocco to convert the 
Moors, but found a difficulty in her way in 
the shape of her parents. She and her brother 
stole away by the Adaja Gate, toward Sala- 
manca, intent on being martyrs, or as Teresa 
expressed it : 

T desired quickly to sec God, and thought 
the way to do so soonest was to die.' 

* Alas for youthful fervor ! She was brought 
back again ignominiously to lessons; and occu- 
pied her spare time in building play-convents, 
and wanting to be a nun, 'though not so much 
as I had longed to be a martyr,' she sa 

After her mother's death, when she was still 
a child, Teresa began to be worldly, to care 
for dress and romances, to gossip with young 
people, and led a frivolous, although innocent 
life. Finally, her determination to seek the 
cloister being fixed, she entered the convent 
of the Incarnation in Avila. 

"Her conventual life was by no means an 
easy one. Sensitive souls the devil delights 
in torturing, and Teresa was tormented by 
doubts and distractions, and by physical ill- 
health, until a confessor was sent to her who 



THE ESCORIAL AND AVI LA. 261 

greatly helped her. She became holy and 
pious, was the friend of St. Francis Borgia 
and St. Peter of Alcantara, and had those 
ecstasies which have made her the subject of 
so much controversy. She reformed her 
order, founded convents, and wherever she 
went sowed seeds in the fertile soil of Spanish 
piety, which seemed to spring into life ; and 
not only in Spain, but all over the world, the 
Carmelites bear witness to the strength, earn- 
estness and piety of Teresa de Ahumada. 

"A visionary she has been called, but so has 
nearly every unworldly soul who forgot self 
for the best good of others. When she died, 
all Spain mourned, and Avila, her early home, 
is remembered to-day, not for the mediaeval 
greatness of its knights, but for a woman who 
ruled not by might nor by force of arms, but 
by her own determined belief in the power of 
prayer to conquer all. 

"A writer says of her, 'The memorials of 
one who, in a ceaseless fight of forty-seven 
years, conquered self, suffering, persecution 
and time, would alone call for a visit to Avila, 
even if the city itself were not a place of deep 
interest and useful study.' 

" Devotion, unselfishness, sweetness and 
strength, — these were the traits of that most 
wonderful woman of her time, 'Saint Teresa 
of Jesus.' 



CHAPTER XVIII. 




OLD TOWNS WHOSE HISTORY LIES HID IN 
MONKISH CHRONICLE AND RHYME 

LMA mater de virtudes, 
ciencas y artes,' I 
quoted to the Pessimist, 
as we sat in the Fonda 
del Comercio, the b 
hotel in Salamanca. 
"This is a univer- 
town, and nearly all the great writers of Spain 
have studied here." 

"Tell me about the University.'* she de- 
manded. 

"It was founded in the thirteenth century, 
and was one of the earliest in Europe, and 
was given grants by Alfonso IX. and Ferdi- 
nand III. It ranked before Oxford, and had 
ten thousand students. 

"The system of Copernicus (which at first 
was believed by many to be arrant nonsense) 
was taught here, and yet when Columbus ex- 
pounded his theories before the professors he 
was met with derision. Let 's go and see it 

262 



OLD TOWNS. 263 

all, now," and we went through the quaint 
streets. 

The facade of the University dates from the 
time of Ferdinand and Isabella, whose arms 
and escutcheon are seen over the portal, and 
it is a fine sample of Gothic-plateresque, with 
gargoyles, busts and medallions. The renais- 
sance staircase is superb, and leads to a library 
of eighty thousand volumes. 

In the chapel are the ashes of Fray Luis de 
Leon, a lovely soul. I said to the Pessimist: 
"He was so clever that he entered the Uni- 
versity when only fourteen, and afterwards 
went into a monastery. 

"His enemies denounced him to the In- 
quisition, for private spite, accusing him of 
having a Jewish taint in his blood. Of course 
they, knew that nothing would so enrage the 
Spaniards as to call him a Jew. The In- 
quisition carefully examined into the charges, 
and kept him in honorable captivity to keep 
him away from his enemies. So careful were 
they that witnesses were examined from every 
part of Spain ; and to all charges he said 
merely that he was in the hands of his su- 
periors, and desired ever 'to be a loyal son of 
Mother Church.' 

"At last the Grand Council at Madrid ac- 
quitted him, to the great discomfiture of his 
enemies and the joy of the common people, 



264 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

whose idol he was. As soon as he was dis- 
charged, he returned to Salamanca; and in 
1576, he rose to preach to a crowded audience, 
saying after his five years absence, danger and 
imprisonment, as if he had been away merely 
a day, ' My children, as we remarked when we 
last met — ' 

"Dear, natural, beautiful old man, he died 
almost sainted in the eves of all who knew 
him. He wrote in Spanish instead of in Latin, 
a thing very unusual in the writers of the day ; 
and his name is linked indissolubly with the 
University of Salamanca. 

"Now, we'll see the cathedral, built in 
15 13, and fine Gothic, superb beyond words. 
The tower over the portal is by Churriguera." 
"Who was he? I 've heard nothing but 
'Churrigueresque ' since we left the Moors," 
said the Pessimist. 

"Jose Churriguera, born at Salamanca, was 
an architect, who was to his profession what 
Gongora was to poetry — rococo, in other 
words. It 's just as suitable as stays and 
crinoline on the Venus de Milo. The artists 
of his school put gilding on wood, marble and 
bronze tortured into grotesque shapes. 

"It 's nearly as bad as landscape gardening, 
for nothing artificial can ever be artistic. 
However, the Salamanca cathedral is the 
finest specimen in Spain, and is almost one of 



OLD TOWNS. 265 

the wonders of the world, with its lace traceries 
in stone." 

"The interior of the cathedral does not 
seem much, after some we have seen," said 
the Pessimist, as we looked at the Gothic roof, 
renaissance gallery, and fine statues. The 
roof is supported by marvelously graceful 
arches, delicately colored. 

"There 's nothing anywhere like Seville, 
and Cordova, Granada and Toledo; but here 
in the oratory is a delightful relic," I an- 
swered. 

"There it is, the Crucifijo de las Batallas 
(Battle Crucifix) the very one which our old 
friend the Cid always carried to battle." 

"I thought it was about time to hear of him 
again. He turns up with clock-like regu- 
larity," said my friend. 

"Possess your soul in patience. He shall 
be interred with military honors in Burgos," 
I said, laughing. 

"Oh, I know him!" she replied dubiously. 
"He won't stay put. What else do we see?" 

"One of the finest specimens of Byzantine 
in all Spain, the old cathedral," I answered, 
as we went up the steps of the beautiful 
building, which dates from the twelfth century. 

The superb carved stalls, the old organ with 
its carved and gilded front, the antique clois- 
ter-, and fine dome, all claimed our time, and 



266 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

nowhere are there more beautiful tombs than 
those of the Anaya family, before the high 
altar. 

"Now," I said, "we go to the convent of 
San Esteban, where Columbus lived safe from 
the storm his enemies were raising for him, for 
Salamanca has the honor of having protected 
him, and Deza believed in his schemes when 
no one else did. 

"I can see the discoverer's wise, kind face 
as he sat here beneath these medallions 
and bas-reliefs, so calm, so deeply furrowed 
with thought, so determined in resolution, 
and stamped with that belief in himself with- 
out which no one can accomplish anything. 

"Here is the Casa de las Conchas, in a small 
street near the University. The shells, em- 
blems of the Mendozas, are encrusted all over 
the outside of the large, square-looking tower, 
and the quaint windows look at one inquir 
ingly. The pavement reminds me of the 
fairy story where the girl had to walk on razors. 

"Here lived Bernardo del Carpio. Don't 
you remember him in the readers in your early 
youth? It was to Salamanca he came, when 
the king promised his father's release. Here 
he knelt to kiss his father's hand, but found 
it stiff and cold. 

"The Leoncse king had kept his oath to 
release the count, by murdering him in prison; 



OLD TOWNS. 267 

he then dressed the dead body in costly- 
robes, and mounting it on a horse, led it out 
to the impatient son. 

"'Father!' Bernardo murmured low, and wept like 

childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike 

men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young 

renown, 
He flung the falchion from his side and in the dust sate 

down." 

"This one house is perfectly mediaeval," 
said the Pessimist. "I 'm glad we came to 
Salamanca if only to see it. What next?" 

"Pessimist," I exclaimed, "it strikes me 
you 've got to have a new name. You 're 
growing interested in everything. What does 
this mean?" 

"It means that I think Salamanca is the 
nicest place we 've been in since Granada," 
she answered. 

'Hurrah for Salamanca then! Let's go 
and see the Palacio del Conde Monterey. 
Monterey was so rich after he was viceroy of 
Naples, that beggars give one as a blessing, 
'May you have as much gold as Monterey,' 
and Philip IV. made a great favorite of him. 

"Here \s the place he lived in; and did you 
ever see such lace-like stone carving? The 
turrets and windows and balconies are just 
the place for gay ladies and handsome cabal- 



268 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

Zeros. Oh ! the mediaeval days were those of 
chivalry and romance, and far better in some 
respects than our prosaic, money-getting 
age." 

"It seems to me you 're the Pessimist 
now," said my friend. "Of what sort of 
stone are all these edifices built? It 's of the 
most beautiful creamy hue, and so rich." 

"It 's native stone, and is so easy to work 
that it 's no wonder everything is perfect in 
detail," I replied. 

Salamanca is the only place of its kind in 
the world. Quiet, deserted, almost dead as 
to any life of the present day, it lives forever, 
fairly teeming with vigorous memories of those 
who are no more. 

"Wasn't there a battle here?" asked my 
friend. 

"The Battle of Salamanca was in Welling- 
ton's time, and ended in complete rout of 
Marmont's men. The French nearly ruined 
Salamanca, pulling down 'thirteen out of 
twenty-five convents, and twenty out of 
twenty-five colleges,' said Wellington in his 
dispatches. 

"The battlefield was two miles from the 
city, near the river Tormes, and where there 
are two small hills called the Arapiles. Of 
these Wellington took possession, and with 
his sixty thousand English soldiers, swooped 



OLD TOWNS. 269 

down upon the hundred thousand French, and 
in forty-five minutes he had reduced his ene- 
mies to a pulp. 'I never,' he said, 'saw an 
army receive such a beating in all my life, and 
if we d had an hour more of daylight, the 
whole army would have been in my hands.' 

''Thiers said of the battle: 'That frightful 
and involuntary battle of Salamanca had un- 
foreseen consequences for the English army, 
for it gave her victory instead of inevitable 
defeat, and began the ruin of our affairs in 
Spain. 

"I'm glad of it," said the Pessimist, 
viciously. "I like to have the French beaten 
when they do such inartistic things. It 's bad 
enough to have them steal Murillos and spoil 
architecture, but it 's almost as bad to have 
their absurd, perky little bonnets supersede 
the graceful mantilla." 

"Pessimist, my dear, it \s a good thing we 
are leaving, for if you stayed here much longer 
I should have you claiming Salamanca as your 
own. Would you prefer being called a 
' Roma pequena ' after the old name of the 
city, or will Salamanquina content you?" 

"American will do nicely," she replied 
calmly, and I subsided. 

Then Salamanca was left behind with its 
glories of architecture, its dead grandeur, its 
Puerta de San Pablo, where hundreds of 



270 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

statued saints keep watch over the quaint old 
houses. 

We mournfully bade " adios " to each nook 
and corner where lurked the picturesque and 
romantic, and were jogged along through a 
parched, scorched-looking country, northward 
toward Valladolid. 

"Cantalapiedra!" I said, as we lingered at a 
small station. "What a name! But are not 
the oaks and that pine wood a delightful 
change from the arid plains through which we 
have come? 

"Now we are nearing El Carpio. There 
are ruins here, and a crypt ; which last was the 
vault of the Carpio family. That ruined 
Moorish tower has many a legend about it, 
and the Carpio palace is still standing." 

"To what place are we coming?" asked the 
Pessimist, who had resumed her pessimism at 
leaving her beloved Salamanca, and was 
shrouded in unutterable gloom. 

"This is Medina del Campo, quite a cele- 
brated place," I replied. "That fine old cas- 
tle, whose red towers contrast so well with the 
fields of corn, is the Castello de la Mota, 
where Isabella the Catholic died, November 
26th, 1504. She was a wonderful woman, a 
strange combination of the womanly virtues 
of constancy, tenderness and purity with 
strength, power and cleverness. Her death 



OLD TOWNS. 271 

put Spain into a fine uproar between the am- 
bitious designs of her husband and her son- 
in-law. " 

"What else is there here that 's interest- 
ing?" asked my friend, as we lunched from 
our capacious basket, — a necessity in Spain 
where station restaurants are few and far be- 
tween. 

"Zamora is only three hours away; but we 
can 't go there and reach Valladolid to-night, 
so we '11 have to 'play go and see,' as the 
children say. Do you know the ballad of how 
Dofia Urraca gained Zamora?" 

"Tell it to me," said the Pessimist, as she 
sat with olives in one hand and a flask of 
Valdepefias in the other. 

"King Ferdinand I., of Castile, when dying, 
apportions his domain amongst his sons, but 
makes no provision for his daughter Urraca r 
who speaks out in meeting, vigorously: 

" 'To good Don Sancho comes Castile, 
Castile the fair and gay, 
To Don Alfonso, proud Leon, 
Don Garcia has Biscay,' 

and she complains most bitterly that she has 
nothing, and cries: 

" 'I may wander through these lands 
A lonely maid, or die ! ' 

"At this her fond papa repents him of his 
partiality, and remarks: 



272 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

" 'In old Castile there stands a tower, 

Thou may'st hereafter claim, 
A tower well peopled and well walled, 

Zamora is its name. 
On this side runs the Dauro round, 

On that bold rocks do frown, 
The Moorish land is all about, 

In truth a noble town. 
Who dares to take it from thy hand 

My curse be on his head ! ' 
They all replied, " Amen! Amen ! " 

Don Sancho nothing said ! ' 

"His silence proved pregnant with meaning; 
for no sooner was his father dead, and Urraca 
peacefully settled in her town, than Don San- 
cho sent an army to besiege it. 

"The Cid was at the head of the host, but 
when the fair chatelaine appeared on the walls 
and fought him with that keen weapon, the 
tongue, he retired in dismay, and refused to 
wage war upon a woman. 

"For this he was banished to Toledo, but 
Don Sancho recalled him to fight the Moors, 
and finally everything was peaceably settled 
with Dona Urraca." 

"Such a fuss over nothing!" said the Pes- 
simist, scornfully. "It seems to me they 
always did such things. It 's a pity they 
could n't stop fighting before they began." 

There 's a strain of Hibernian in the Pessi- 
mist which is peculiarly alluring to me, and I 
smiled as I continued : 



OLD TOWNS. 273 

"Zamora was named from the Arabic Sa- 
moraJi — a turquoise; and the Moors, under 
Al-Mansour (who was a second Attila) be- 
sieged it so long that, though they conquered 
it at last, the saying 'A Zamora no se gan6 en 
una hora ' has become a proverb among the 
Spaniards. It is often used when some 'faint 
heart ' finds it very difficult to win his 'fair 
lady.' 

"To what are we coming now?" asked my 
friend, as we neared a small place upon the 
Duero. 

"Tordesillas; and there is the nunnery of 
Santa Clara, whither Juana the Mad went to 
die, watching over the coffin of the wretched 
Philip the Fair, whom she had always so 
adored that his neglect unhinged her reason." 

"It seems to have been a regular cult with 
royal Spaniards to enter the cloister. How 
many did so besides Juana and Charles V.?" 
said my friend. 

"Philip II., several Alfonsos and Bermudos, 
and most of them needed a little season of 
prayer, for their lives were scarcely fit prepara- 
tions for heaven, poor things ! But how fast we 
are getting on ! Here is Simancas, where all the 
archives are kept. Among them are the 
original deeds of the surrender of Granada, 
the Grand Captain's accounts of the wars in 
Italy, and any number of valuable state docu- 



274 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

ments. When you write a history of Spain, this 
is where you '11 have to come and live," I said. 

"When I write a history, it will be that of a 
less bloody country than Spain," said the 
Pessimist, loftily. 

"All history is bloody. One gets used to 
it in time," I replied calmly; but we did not 
discuss the point further, for I quoted (know- 
ing that the beauty of sentiment and rhythm 
would charm the poetical Pessimist), 

" ' My heart was happy when 1 turned 
From Burgos to Valladolid, 

My lie-art that day was light and gay, 

It bounded like a kid!'" 

"I presume that \s original; it sounds very 
like your poetry," said my friend. 

"You flatter me," I cried. "That 's from 
one of the oldest Spanish ballads. I see you 
cannot appreciate the antique. But here we 
are at our destination, the Belad Walid (Land 
of Walid) of the Moors; Valle de Lid (Land 
of Conflict) or the Pincia of Ptolemy. 
There is so much to see here we shall never 
get away. 

Valladolid is delightful, but its hotels are 
not the best, and the Fonda de Francia, the 
best, only tolerable. However, the Pessimist 
and I were so tired that we slept well and 
awoke ready for the fray, and started out early 
to see all that was to be seen. 



OLD TOWNS. 275 

" Every imaginable thing has happened 
here," I said, in reply to her demand for his- 
tory. 

"The court was here for years; here the 
Cortes refused to set aside Juana and ac- 
knowledge Ferdinand; here, after his haughty 
letter to Cardinal Ximenes (which broke the 
poor man's heart), Charles V. entered to meet 
the Cortes of Castile upon his accession to the 
throne. Here, in this little house in the 
Plazuela del Rastro, Cervantes lived. His 
house is No. II, — there, near that small 
wooden bridge over the Pisuerga. 

"Cervantes was commanded to write a de- 
scription of the fetes when Philip III. 's son 
was christened, and all Valladolid was in an 
uproar of joy and festivity. No. 2 Calle 
Ancha de la Magdalena is the unpretentious 
house where Columbus died, May 20th, 1506. 
His body was placed in the convent of San 
Francisco, but removed to Seville, whence it 
was taken to Cuba." 

Leaving this we came to the Plaza Major, a 
wide, pleasant square surrounded by a granite 
arcade, thronged with people, and three-story 
houses with airy balconies and arched door- 
ways. 

In the Plaza de San Pablo, the royal palace, 
a gloomy pile, saddens one, so lifeless docs it 
appear. The interior has a fine patio with 



276 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

busts of the Roman emperors, a splendid 
stairway and balconies on the second story. 

"Here Philip II. was born," I said to the 
Pessimist. "He did much for Valladolid, and 
is held in great remembrance here. He fairly 
pervades the whole town, and sometimes with 
vivid memories, for I recall the Auto-da-fe 
which he celebrated in the Plaza Major, and 
at which thirteen persons were burned." 

"They stab in the south and burn in the 
north; Spaniards are pleasant people!" the 
Pessimist said grimly. 

"Come, come; treason! You shan't talk 
so about my Spaniards. You know you 're 
as charmed with them as I am. You 
merely choose to air your pessimism; is it 
not so?" 

"Is there anything nice in Valladolid ?' ' She 
ignored my question. 

"San Pablo is delightful. It 's one of the 
most perfect Gothic monuments in Spain, and 
with the College of San Gregorio (built for 
poor students who could not pay) is absolutely 
paralyzing in its entrancing beauty. 

"By the way, this is the place where our 
old friend Don Pedro el Cruel repudiated 
Blanche de Bourbon. 

"Hither Wellington came, after the battle 
of Salamanca, and made a grand entry through 



OLD TOWNS. 277 

the Puerta de Santa Clara to the delight of all 
the inhabitants." 

"Is there a picture gallery?" asked my 
friend. 

"I regret to say there is, and we 're going 
to it now. It was the College of Santa Cruz, 
founded by Cardinal Mendoza, and there are 
some good paintings by Antonio Pereda, a na- 
tive of Valladolid. His best work is a 'Span- 
ish Noble,' in the Munich gallery. 

"There are some curious pictures painted 
on mother-of-pearl, four and twenty in num- 
ber, all of the 'Passion of Our Lord,' and 
some fine examples of Berruguete's work. He 
was the Spanish Leonardo da Vinci, and was 
carver, sculptor, and artist, living in Valladolid 
nearly all his life, near San Benito el Real. 
Hernandez's 'St. Teresa ' is a masterpiece, 
and some of Juan de Juni's are remarkable for 
their breadth and vigor, but when one has 
seen the Seville and Madrid galleries, other 
Spanish museums seem little in comparison." 

We next went to the cathedral, a granite 
edifice, designed by Herrara, and left unfin- 
ished when the architect was called to Madrid 
to build the Escorial. It is simple and effective, 
but cold. Within is buried Pedro Ansurez, 
the founder of Valladolid, who did much for 
the city, and yet has no statue to his honor 
in the place he so fondly loved. We went to 



278 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

see the Casa de las Argollas where the con- 
stable, Alvaro de Luna, was confined before 
his execution, and the house is named from 
the iron links in the chains worn there by the 
great prisoner. 

"In the Calle de San Martin lived Alonzo 
Cano, our Granada artist who was tortured for 
killing his wife. Do you know he did n't do 
it after all, for somebody says her dead hand 
was found holding a handful of auburn hair, 
and his was black! " I said. 

"Calderon lived at 22 Calle de Teresa 
Gil, in that quaint house. 

"Valladolid is a revelation to me. I feel 
like dancing for joy to think I have seen it. 
Such places are enshrined in one's memory 
like a pet saint, to remember and think over 
ever after. Not for its streets, for they 're 
narrow and ill-paved, sometimes even ill-smell- 
ing; nor for its people, who are not, my dear, 
gay Andalusians; but because it 's such a per- 
fect remembrancer of the glorious architecture 
of those days when even' man seemed to hold 
;i cathedral in his brain, — the days when lofty 
thoughts sprang upward till they reached the 
turret roofs of college and church, convent and 
university. Such things always make me want 
to be better and do lofty work in the world. 
Yes, Valladolid silently preaches 'Sermons in 
stones.' 



CHAPTER XIX. 




"BURGOS, THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID." 

IEZ meses de invierno y 
dos de infierno" (Ten 
months of winter and 
two of hades). li Yes, in- 
deed!" exclaimed the 
Pessimist. " Traveling in 
Spain has its drawbacks. 
One gets up at five in the morning, jogs along 
at a snail's pace all the forenoon, in order to 
arrive at midday in a place hot enough to broil 
a baby." 

"Now, that is pure pessimism !" I replied. 
"Or is it because it is the fashion for travelers 
to run down Spain? This is the very first 
morning on which we have had to arise and 
shine with the sun. It \s our own fault, be- 
cause we dawdled till we missed the night 
train, and it 's no hotter than plenty of May 
days at home. Come, come; remember where 
you are — in the famous birthplace of the Cid." 
"Bother the Cid!" she said irreverently. 

279 



2 So WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

"Be careful!" I exclaimed. ''You know 
the fate of those who show disrespect to his 
memory. Remember the Je 

"What Jew?" she asked scornfully. 

' * Do you mean to say you have forgotten 
about the Jew who dared to touch the body 
of the Cid?" I cried. " T was when all Spain 
mourned the death of El Cid, 'The Beauteous 
Beard.' His corpse lay in state in the church 
of San Pedro de Cardena, five miles from here, 
ling among the hills of Old Castile. A Jew 
entered the sanctuary- to look at the dead hero's 
body. There he lay, all in his armor dressed, 
the hilt of his good sword 'Tizona,' a double- 
hilted weapon, in his hand, and upon the worn 
and rugged face the perfect calm which comes 
once only to such restless natures as his. 
'There thou liest,' said the dog of an unbe- 
liever, as those of the race of Isaac were called. 
'Thou art the great Cid. Thou hast made my 
brethren groan at lending their good golden 
pistoles, and all Spain to tremble at thy 
sword. Thy great black beard was thy pride; 
of it thou saidst, "God be praised, I thus keep 
it for my pleasure, and never hand of Moor 
nor Jew hath dared to touch it!" Thou hast 
classed God's chosen people with the dark- 
skinned Moor in thine arrogance. Oh, haughty 
one, thy beard is thin and gray! Thou liest 
at mv feet. See now the hand of the Jew 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE' CID. 2S1 

dares touch thee,' and Isaac reached forth his 
hand to pull the Cid's beard. 

"Then, what a sound was heard! The Jew 
fell down upon the hard stone floor in a fit. 
The attendant priests came hurrying in, and 
there they saw that the dead hand of the Cid 
had grasped his sword, and drawn it forth full 
a foot from the scabbard. Ah! Pessimist, 
how dare you in the face of such a story frivol 
over the memory of that doughty hero? Be- 
ware, minion!' I hear him cry. * Beware, lest 
my vengeance smite thee. I am Ruy Dias de 
Bivar, the Cid Campeador!" 

"Fiddlesticks!" replied my friend. "Do 
you think you could forget the Cid (who seems 
to have been a cross between a brigand and a 
mercenary, from the way he plundered on his 
own account, and fought for whichever side 
had not happened to banish him) long enough 
to take me to see just a few of the sights of 
this up-hill-and-down-dale city, since you were 
determined to bring me here?" 

"I '11 take you everywhere," I replied cheer- 
fully, "but don't think you can get away 
from El Cid. He pervades Burgos, as Sozo- 
dont or Pear's Soap advertisements do the 
Hudson. We '11 go to the Cathedral first." 

"I 'm so tired of cathedrals," grumbled the 
Pessimist. 

"I can't help that. Burgos Cathedral is 



2S2 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

one of the largest and most beautiful in the 
world. You '11 never forgive me if I let you 
miss it. When you get back home, and arc 
over being tired, you '11 hate me for not mak- 
ing you see it. Someone will say: 'Of course 
you saw Burgos Cathedral?' and when you 
humbly reply, 'No,' they '11 put on a pitying 
look and say, 'Oh, that 's the finest thing in 
Spain!' and you '11 go down to your grave 
disgraced forever, branded as one who has lost 
her opportunities." 

"You say I '11 hate you then, if you do n't 
take me to see it, and I say I shall hate you 
now if you do," she grumbled. 

"Oh, hate away ; I 'm callous," I answered; 
and to the Cathedral we went, through those 
delightful streets. 

Burgos straggles along the bank of the Ar- 
lanzon, with utter disregard for propriety as 
to the matter of the straight path, though emi- 
nently scriptural in the narrowness of its ways. 
The streets go anywhere, wind about un- 
certainly, stop when the}' 're tired, begin again 
farther on, and are thoroughly Spanish, hence 
delightful. 

The old houses nearly all date from before the 
seventeenth century, and have tiny balconies 
enclosed in glass, like mummy cases. Every- 
thing is painted in all the colors of the 
rainbow — houses, doors, roofs ; and it is fairly 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 2 S3 

startling after white Cadiz, the cool streets of 
Andalucia, or the dark and frowning battle- 
ments of Old Castile. 

"De Amicis says, 'If there were at Burgos 
an asylum for mad painters, one would say the 
city had been painted one day when its doors 
had been broken open,' ' I said to the Pessi- 
mist, as we gazed upon the kaleidoscopic 
scene. "He always says the right thing. 
Nobody else should ever write a book on 
Spain, for he has said everything, and in the 
most charming way it could be said. We are 
nearing the Cathedral which — " 

I ceased abruptly, to find out what was the 
matter with the Pessimist. She had stopped, 
and was standing stock still in the middle of 
the street, looking over the roofs of some 
houses, absolutely spellbound. As my eye 
followed hers I did not wonder at her absorp- 
tion. There they were, those two beautiful 
spires, as wonderful as Cologne and Antwerp, 
though not so well known. 

Oh, for Shakespeare's pen to write to them 
a sonnet, or the brush of Michael Angelo to 
paint that picture! The day was warm and 
fair; the sky that clear, cloudless blue which 
is deeper than the warmest hues of summer 
days. Against the sapphire background 
stood out the twin spires, three hundred feet 
in height, like Mexican filigree, their traceries 



284 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

and carvings shining in the sun, delicate in 
finish, perfect in outline, faultless in detail. 

By day the sun gleams through the carving, 
and the blue sky peers between the soft-hued 
stones like a caressing glance from azure eyes 
veiled by white eyelids. By night the myriad 
stars glisten midst the traceries of stone, like 
gems set in a wondrous carven coronet. 

"What is that?" the Pessimist asked at 
length. 

"Nothing to speak of. Nothing worth see- 
ing," I replied as disagreeably as I knew how; 
and that 's really saying a great deal! "Only 
a part of the Cathedral of Burgos, which you 
would not see because you had seen 'so many 
cathedrals!' 

"You may crow if you like," said the Pes- 
simist, "but how was I to know that angels 
built these towers? No man could ever have 
devised that heavenly thing. I succumb. 
Take me there. I shall henceforth be like the 
Puritan named 'Obadiah-bind-them-in-chains!' 
I am converted to cathedrals." 

Having my enemy at my feet, I could afford 
to be generous, and I led her in complete 
silence round the low-roofed houses which 
block the way to the Cathedral. 

We seemed not to care to know that it was 
thirteenth century Gothic, pure in style, and 
founded by Saint Ferdinand in 122 1, in honor 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 2S5 

of his marriage with Dofta Beatrice, daughter 
of the Duke of Suabia. We could scarcely 
force ourselves to enter, but sat upon the 
steps of a house opposite, in utter silence. 
There were the spires, or belfry towers; the 
square lantern with its points and pinnacles so 
carved that the eye wavers and falls in trying 
to trace the matchless designs. There were 
the statues, — saints, angels, and virtues, — all 
under stone canopies as delicate as cramoisie or 
velours; there were statuettes of kings and 
prophets around the transept, and the won- 
derful facade of the Puerta del Perdon ; three 
portals with pointed arches surmounted with the 
sculptures of the Coronation and the Immacu- 
late Conception of the Virgin, and the fine 
statues of Ferdinand and King Alfonso the 
Sixth. Rose windows, trefoils, open-work 
balustrades, ogival windows, arches, pillars, 
ajimez windows with superb glass, soft in 
hue, delicate in design ; and everywhere, in 
every niche and corner and crevice, statues, 
statues, statues, angels, saints, prophets, 
priests and kings, cherubs and seraphs, with 
crosses, candles, harps and lyres. This was 
Burgos Cathedral. 

We sat until a sympathizing crowd of small 
children had appeared from the cracks of the 
stone pavement — or so it almost seemed, so 
suddenly did they swarm about us. They 



TTH A PESSIMIST FN SPAIX. 

thought us ill, and offered everything im: 
able. As one child at last darted awa 
bring his mother, I managed to gather to- 
gether enough remnants of Spanish from the 
scrap-bag I call my brain, to assure them that 
we were only tired ; and as we went inside the 
portal we left them smiling pityingly at the 
mad Americanas. Only one, a tiny crippled 
lad. with a wizened brown face, followed, and 
timidly plucked my arm. 

"It is the Cathedral, senorita, " he whis- 
pered. 'It is because you like it so well?" 

I wondered at the penetration of this child 
of the people, and said : 

"Why do you think the Cathedral would 
make one ill? And what is your name, chuo 

tie one 
My name is Alegrio, and I know it is our 
cathedral which makes you so still, for I come 
here at times, and here one can forget all — 
even when one cannot run like other niiws, 
and one must always be in p.. 

I lingered in the lovely portal over which 
the carven saints looked down so sweetly upon 
this descendant of their makers and upon the 
alien. 

The little lad was Strang. _t. He was 

of the darkc S :he midnight 

type in which lurked such fire and pride, the 
hair as if a raven drooped her wings to protect 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 2S7 

the childish head, the skin of pale olive, upon 
which the carmine flush shows so plainly the 
rich blood coursing in the haughty, grave Cas- 
tilian. The quaintness of his being called 
Alegrio — mirth. What irony of fate chanced 
to give this afflicted little creature so gay a 
name ? 

"How came you by your name?" I asked. 
"I never heard it before." 

The boy smiled a smile which flashed over 
his face as the moon bursts from behind a dark 
cloud. 

"My name was Jacobo, for Santiago and 
for my father, Jacobo Vastelejo, a sereno. 
My mother being dead" (here the child 
blessed himself solemnly, a pretty way the 
Spanish have of honoring their dead), "I 
lived with him in the Calle de la Calera; and 
then it came that my father died, and I was 
left alone. Fray Luis, at the monastery there, 
took me to go to school. 

"One day as I went to mass, there came a 
call, and some one cried that a boy was in the 
Arlanzon, and I quickly ran to see if I might 
help. He was a nino, much smaller than I, 
scfiorita, and I pulled him out. I got quite 
wet myself, and running, lest I miss the mass, 
I soon was very hot, for it was summer and 
the sun was high. Then I had the fever, and 
when I came to myself again, I was as now — " 



288 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

he touched the shortened leg with his little 
crutch. 

"It was confirmation time, and my name 
was to be Jorge, for brave San Jorge who 
fought the dragon, but I said a lame boy- 
could not fight, and San Jorge would not 
want me for his knight. Then there came 
Fray Luis, and he spoke to me so beautifully 
that I wept. 

"He said the bucn Dies perhaps had taken 
joy from me because he wished me to think 
more to give it to others. Would I not like 
to take Our Lady's name, Alegria, for she is 
called 'Our Lady of Joyfulness.' He said it 
would remind me always that the good God 
wished me to make others joyful. So I was 
confirmed at Pentecostes, and they called me 
Alegrio. 

"Will you come to see my chapel?' he 
asked earnestly. 

My eyes had filled with tears at the simple 
story told so naively, and I nodded assent as 
the lad led us through the magnificent choir 
and transept, formed by four large piers, like 
beautiful towers sculptured in the rich creamy 
hue of the Ontorio marble. 

We reached the Puerta Alta with its ogival 
portal and concentric arches, fantastically dec- 
orated. Here, on the right was a railed chapel, 
and on the shrine the beautiful figure of 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 289 
Nuestra Sefiora de Alegria (Our Lady of 

Joy)- 

"There 's her altar," whispered Alegrio, "I 
come here every day. She was like that, 
Fray Luis says; not just her mouth and nose 
perhaps, for it 's so long ago that she was 
here we cannot be sure how she was; but 
I think she looked like that in her eyes," 
and the boy's worn face seemed to take the 
same uplifted look as he gazed around the 
solemn aisles. 

We made him happy with kindly words, 
and (although he had not asked alms) a golden 
coin, the like of which he had never seen be- 
fore, and as he bade us "Adios," and "God 
bless you," and the tap of his little crutch 
reverberated down the stone pavement, I said 
to the Pessimist: 

"The best sermon ever preached in the great 
Cathedral of Burgos was preached this morn- 
ing by that little ragged atom who calls him- 
self Alegrio." 

The Pessimist did not answer, and her eyes 
were full of tears. 

"MoreCid!" I exclaimed, as we reached the 
cloisters, and passed into the little chapel 
where lies buried Juan Cuchiller, servant to 
Henry the Third, a rare domestic who sold 
his cloak to buy his master's supper. 

The effigy of Cuchiller is of the finest ala- 



290 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

baster; a dog, the emblem of faithfulness, 
crouched at his feet. 

''Here is the famous coffer; and now for 
a story which will delight your soul, O Cid- 
hater, since it doth not redound to the credit 
of my doughty hero of renown!" I exclaimed. 
"Know then, O Pessimist, that El Cid was 
often hard put to it to find the money where- 
with to continue his various campaigns, and 
this was especially the case when he waged a 
certain war against Valencia. Now, to despoil 
Jews, was, in those merry days, a right Chris- 
tian thing to do, and El Cid sent word to two 
Jewish merchants of Burgos that he must have 
money. 

'The Burgalese Jews had, mayhap, heard 
some such remarks before, and also there had 
been cases where the Cid had forgotten his 
promises to pay, so Rachel and Vidas remarked 
that they would like some security. 

"The Cid's trusty messenger sped back to his 
master, and returned to the Jews bearing two 
magnificent coffers, hasped with iron, and 
under strong lock. These, he said, con- 
tained the master's jewels and plate, and 
were his surety for the loan of six hundred 
marks. 

"The Jews accepted with pleasure, no doubt 
spending the greater part of their spare time 
praying that God would smite the ungodly 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 291 

Cid, enemy of their race, in which case they 
would get his jewels. 

" Meantime the Cid conquered Valencia in 
the most approved fashion, spoiled the city, 
and sent for his coffers Alvar Fafiez and Mar- 
tin Antolinez, who repaid the six hundred 
marks. 

"What do you suppose the clever Jews 
thought when they heard the truth? The Cid 
had filled his chests with sand ! So much for 
the chest story and the Cid as a man of busi- 
ness. He ought to have been on the Stock 
Exchange." 

" Humph!" said the Pessimist. "What 
else are we to see in the Cathedral?." 

"Oh! all sorts of chapels, and things," I 
answered. There are superb bas-reliefs of the 
Passion of Our Lord in the Transagrario ; the 
choir has one hundred and three carved walnut 
stalls, inlaid and traced with medallions and 
canopies; where the baptistry now is, was the 
old chapel of Santiago. The Escalera of the 
Puerta Alta was carved by Diego Siloe, and 
nobody in all the world carved such foliage, 
grapes, and draperies, as he did. We can 't 
see them all, but we must not miss the 'Cristo 
de Burgos.' 

"It 's in the Chapel del Santisimo 'Christo 
de la Agonia,' and is an image of Our Lord, 
crowned with thorns. It was said to have 



292 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

been carved by Nicodemus after he and Joseph 
of Arimathea buried Our Lord, and was dis- 
covered in a box floating about the sea. It is 
peculiarly realistic, for the hair, beard, and 
eyelashes are real." 

"I don't like it," said my friend. "It's 
too lifelike." 

"The Cathedral has one hundred and twelve 
windows, one hundred and forty-four pictures, 
sixty tombs, seven organs, forty-four altars, 
one hundred statues, and — " 

"If that is the case would you mind taking 
me away? I did n't come to make a pilgrim- 
age, and as I can 't see it all I 've seen 
enough," interrupted my companion, and I 
reluctantly led her away. 

"What is that green gateway?" she asked, 
as we meandered about the streets. "It looks 
as if things had happened there." 

'Things have.'* I replied. "That's the 
Arco de Santa Maria, built by the Burgalese 
after the rebellion of the Comunero, when 
Charles the Fifth came to visit the city. Do 
you see those figures? They are to represent 
the Spanish heroes, the Cid, Layn Calvo and 
Fernan Gonzalo, with Caesar in the center and 
the Blessed Virgin above them all. Look at 
the turrets and battlements, and close by are 
the bastions of the former walls. 

"What splendid cavalcades have passed un- 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE C/D. 293 

der that arch ! After Charles the Fifth abdi- 
cated in the Netherlands, in 1556, he stopped 
at Burgos on his way to his chosen monastery 
at Yuste in Estremadura. Great were the fes- 
tivities. Bells were rung, the streets hung 
with tapestries and velvets, the town illum- 
inated, and all was rejoicing until the for- 
mer Emperor left to become a mere private 
citizen, leaving the country in the hands of his 
son, the grave, stern, wholly Spanish Philip 
the Second." 

'What happened in the castle?" asked the 
Pessimist. 

'Pedro was born there, and the Cid was 
married. 

" Within his hall of Burgos the king prepares the feast, 
He makes his preparations there for many a noble guest. 
It is a joyful city, it is a gallant day, 
'T is the Campeador's wedding, and who will bide away? 

Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the 

gate, 
Behind him comes Ruy Diaz in all his bridal state; 
The crowd makes way before them as up the street 

they go, 
For the multitude of people their steps must needs be 

slow. 

Then comes the bride Ximena ; the King he holds her 

hand, 
And the Queen, and all in fur and pall, the nobles of the 

land. 
But when the fair Ximena stood forth to plight her hand, 
Kodrigo gazing on her, his face could not command. 



294 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

He stood and blushed before her— then at the last said 

he: 
'I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villainy. 
In no disguise I slew him — man against man, I stood; 
There was some wrong between us, and I did shed his 

blood. 
I slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace, 
An honored husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's 

place.' " 

"Such was the Cid's bridal, here in quaint 
old Burgos; and very different was the castle 
in those days. Now, it 's almost a ruin, for 
it was the scene of bloody conflict with the 
French when Wellington and Soult were at 
swords' points along the banks of the Arlan- 
zon. 

"Now we are going to drive out to Las 
Huelgas, the famous convent. It was 
founded in I I So by Alfonso the Eighth, and is 
one of the most beautiful spots in Spain. The 
order is Cistercian, very strict, and only 
women are allowed to see the nuns, who be- 
long to the nobility, and must bring a dowry. 
This is rather unusual, for most orders do not 
require an entrance fee. 

"Many great nobles have been among the 
sisters: Berenguela, daughter of St. Ferdinand, 
and Maria of Aragon, aunt of Charles V. One 
of the most curious things to see is the chapel 
of Santiago. Here the esquires, ready for 
knighthood, used to 'velar las ar mas' (watch 
the arms) or keep their vigil before they were 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 295 

to be knighted. All night long the candidate 
for knighthood watched, his sword and spurs 
on the altar; he vowed to lead a life of chas- 
tity, to succor the weak, and serve the lady of 
his choice, and when the morning broke, he 
received the accolade in a curious manner. 

"Saint James was a warrior-saint; and in 
this chapel is preserved an image of him in 
which the arms are moved by springs. A 
sword was fastened to the right hand of the 
statue, and the spring was touched, and the 
sword fell gently upon the shoulder of the 
aspirant for knighthood. This saved the Cas- 
tilian's pride, for it was deemed beneath his 
dignity to receive the accolade from a man. 
In Las Huelgas is also preserved the banner 
of Alfonso the Eighth, which he carried 
at Las Navas de Tolosa, and Alfonso the 
Seventh and Alfonso the Eighth are buried 
here. The church has been called the'Es- 
corial of the North' ; and many spectacles of 
history were held there in the days when Bur- 
gos was the chief city and Madrid a mere 
town." 

"Is this where your beloved Cid was 
buried?" asked the Pessimist, as we wan- 
dered slowly through the dim aisles. 

"No, San Pedro de Cardefta was his chosen 
burial place. We won't go there, for it *s a 
dreary drive across windy, rocky wastes, and 



-/- WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

only the chrysalis is there: for the Cid's bones 
and those of Ximena, his devoted wife, were 
removed to the Town Hall in Burgos, where 
they are kept in a walnut urn, and are shown 
to curious visitors hy per miso from the Ayun- 
tamiento."' 

"Where do we go n- ,sked my friend. 

' T see La Cartuja, one of the sights of 
Burgos." I answered, and we drove rapidly 
thither. 

The convent was once very wealthy, but 
since the religious communities were sup- 
in Spain, it has degenerated, and now 
only four or five poor, lonely Carthusians in- 
habit its walls. The exterior of the church is 
Gothic, with fine flying but: pinnacles 

and pointed-arched windows, and the principal 
facade has the arms of Castile and Leon. The 
interior is divided into three portions, each 
railed in, one for the monks, one for the lay 
brothers, and the third for the people. The 
famous altar, designed by Gil de Siloe, was 
finished in 1499 Dv order of Queen Isabella, 
and gilded with gold brought from America 
by Columbus. 

I said, "the tombs here 

-aid to be the finest in all Europe! Those 

two in the centre are of Juan the Second and 

Queen Isabella of Portugal. Look at the 

sides, crowned with wonderful statuettes, un- 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 297 

der filagree canopies, with open work leaves, 
vines, fruits, birds, and the tout ensemble so 
finely and delicately executed that one can 
scarcely follow the intricate work." 

"Who erected the tombs?" asked my friend. 

"Queen Isabella, in 1489; they were de- 
signed by her favorite, Gil de Siloe, and cost 
six hundred thousand maravedis. Look at 
that crucifix. Is it not a wonderful work of 
art? The allegorical scene over it is that 
curious old symbol of the Pelican wounding her 
breast — an early Christian type of Our Lord. 

" ' The Pelican, brooding in agony 

Because her young are starving 'neath her eyes, 
Pecks at her breast until her life's blood flows 
To nourish them, and in the desert dies.' 

"This burial ground is the saddest I ever 
saw. Think of it! Four hundred and fifteen 
Carthusians buried here, forgotten, their 
graves neglected, overgrown with moss and 
weeds, the tall cypresses rising over them as 
stately as Gothic spires rise to heaven. No 
tears are shed for them, unless the water, trick- 
ling from the deserted fountain, weeps, or the 
dew casts a tear upon the flowers which lie 
above their quiet breasts. Forgotten in 
death, were their lives wasted? Dios sabe ! ' ' 

"Well, since you can't possibly find out, 
would you mind coming back to Burgos?" said 
the Pessimist. "I never could see any sense 



2 9$ WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIX. 

in waxing sentimental over a musty old grave- 
yard, filled with people whose very names you 
do not know. " 

" ' E'en such is time, which takes on trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 

And pays us but with earth and dust, 
Which in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways, 

Shuts up the story of our days,' 

said old Sir Walter Raleigh," I answered, and 
we drove slowly back toward the city. 

There was yet one more pilgrimage to be 
made in Burgos, and we hurried to the church 
of Santa Agueda. It is a simple building, 
pure in style, with an ogival nave, and it is 
chiefly interesting from its close connection 
with the legends of the Cid. 

"It was one of the iglcsias jitraras, or a 
church where those suspected of villainy could 
be purged by oath," I told the Pessimist, 
"and the story is as follows: 

"Don Sancho, brother to King Alfonso the 
Sixth, had been foully murdered in Zamora, 
and the king was suspected of having had a 
hand in his brother's death. The 'Roman- 
says that the scene was as follows: 'In 
Santa Agueda. at Burgos, where knights are 
wont to take their oaths, the oath of Alfonso 
was also taken after his brother's death. The 
gallant Cid, who held a crucifix, made him 
swear the truth upon an iron lock, a cross- 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 299 

bow, and the Gospels. The words he speaks 
arc so awful that the king shudders at 
them. 

" "If thou should'st not speak the truth 
on what is asked thee, namely, if thou hadst 
any part in the murder of thy brother, may 
knaves kill thee, — knaves from Asturias and 
not from Castile; may they kill thee with iron- 
pointed bludgeons and not with lances or 
shafts, with horn-handled knives and not with 
gilt poniards. May those who do so wear 
clogs and not laced shoes ; may they wear 
rustics' cloaks and not the courtray cloaks or 
those of curled silk; canvas shirts and not 
Hollands embroidered ; may each of them be 
mounted on an ass and not on a mule or a 
horse; may they make use of rope bridles and 
not of leathern ones, well-tanned ; may they 
kill thee in the fields and not in a city or a vil- 
lage ; and may they tear thy heart, all panting, 
from thy breast !' 

"The oath was so awful that the king did 
not venture to take it, but a knight said to 
him, 'Swear, and fear naught, brave king; never 
a king perjured nor a Pope excommuni- 
cated.' The gallant king then took the oath, 
and swore that he had had no hand in his 
brother's assassination; but even then he was 
filled with anger and indignation. 'Thou wast 
wrung, O Cid, to make me take that oath, 



300 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

for later thou wilt have to kiss my hand!' he 
said. 

11 'To kiss a king's hand is no honor to 
me?' said the Beauteous Beard. 

" 'Get thee hence from my land, thou Cid, 
false knight, and come not back till a year has 
elapsed,' cried Alfonso. Thus ends the 
'Romancero,' and the curious story of the oath 
of Santa Agueda." 

"What does the oath mean, and why was it 
so awful?" asked the Pessimist. 

"Each clause meant a particularly degrad- 
ing kind of death. He was to be killed by 
Asturians, because a Castilian deemed it a 
deadly disgrace to be killed by any provincial; 
by a bludgeon, because only peasants carried 
them; by a knife, because knights carried gilt 
poniards; by those who wore clogs and canvas 
shirts, because nobles wore laced shoes, em- 
broidered Hollands, and courtray cloaks; and 
in the fields, instead of a city or village, be- 
cause there would be no priest to give him the 
sacrament, and he would die unshrived." 

"What a queer lot they were," said the 
Pessimist. "It makes little difference, now, 
whether they were slain by prince or pauper." 

"Nothing makes any difference unless one 
thinks it does, and then it makes all the differ- 
ence in the world," I said, philosophically. 

We wandered around the streets of Burgos, 



THE BIRTHPLACE OF THE CID. 30 1 

re-visiting our favorite haunts, sorry to say 
good-bye, and thinking resentfully of the mor- 
row, when we must leave. I could have looked 
forever at the Cathedral towers. How won- 
derful they looked against the pink glow of 
the sunset! How pure was their perfect out- 
line! How lofty and aspiring were their pin- 
nacles! My last glimpse of those never-to-be- 
forgotten towers, as the night shadows began 
to fall about us, was as the last gleams of day- 
light enwrapped their Gothic traceries and lacy 
frost-work, and made of each a veritable torre 
del oroy fairer far than that one which gleams 
beside the rippling Guadalquivir in gay Se- 
ville. 



CHAPTER XX. 




ALL THE WAY TO ZARAGOZA. 

EN hours to Zaragoza!" I 
exclaimed, as we steamed 
out of the Station Puerta 
de Atocha at Madrid. 
"We 've a long day in 
which to stud\' history. 
Tlie first place of any 
account is Alcala de Henares. I wish we 
could have stopped there, for it 's very inter- 
esting. It was an old Roman city, spoken 
of by Pliny, and vases and coins which 
belong to the Roman period are often found. 
Don Bernardo, Archbishop of Toledo, con- 
quered Alcala from the Moors, in 1118, and 
Alonzo VI. gave the city to him and his suc- 
cessors. Raimundo, who followed him, be- 
came absolute sovereign, and gave the people 
their fucros, or charter. This was full of the 
queerest rules, for instance: 'The man who 
will pull another by the beard is to be fined 
four maravedis, and have his own beard cut 
away; and if he should have none, let him have 
an inch deep of flesh cut into his own chin.' 

302 



ALL THE MAT TO ZARAGOZA. 303 

"The people of Alcala were kind and toler- 
ant to the Jews, but hated the Moors. Here, 
the martyrs, Saints Justo and Pastor, mere 
boys, were killed in the reign of Dacian ; and 
here in later years was born Cervantes, the 
star of Spain, who from this simple town shed 
the beams of his genius over all the world, 
and whose radiance never dims. He reminds 
me of another jester who wrote mock heroics, 
one of which, upon the 'Death, Burial and 
Honors of Chrispina Maranzmona,' the cat of 
Juan Chrespo, was published in Paris, in 1604. 
Cintio Merctisso was the writer's nom dc plume, 
and no one has ever been able to discover ex- 
actly who he was. Here is his best example 
of the subtle Spanish wit : 

' Up in the concave of the tiles, and near 

That firm-set wall, the north wind whistles by, 
Close to the spot the cricket chose last year, 

In a blind corner far from every eye, 
Beneath a brick that hides the treasure dear 

Five choice sardines in secret darkness lie; 
These, brethren-like, I charge you take by shares 
And also all the rest to which you may be heirs. 
Moreover you will find in heaps piled fair — 

Proofs of successful toil to build a name — 
A thousand wings and legs of birds pecked bare 

And cloaks of quadrupeds both wild and tame; 
All which your father had collected there, 

To serve as trophies of an honest fame; 
These keep and count them better than all prey, 
X>»r give them, e'en for ease or sleep or life, away.'" 

"Is Alcala popular, now?" asked my friend. 



3QJ WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

, "No; it 's as dead as the traditional door- 
nail," I answered. "In 1 836 the great uni- 
versity was removed to Madrid, and this proved 
the death-blow to Alcala de Henares. It used 
to be thronged with cstudiantcs — merry fellows, 
who, gay and lazy, sang and danced and 
studied (when perforce compelled), in rags 
and picturesque cloaks, strumming their 
guitars under the balconies. Cardinal Ximcncs, 
minister of Ferdinand and Isabella, studied in 
Alcala, and founded the university. Here it 
was that he spent the last years of his life. His 
famous polyglot Bible, in six volumes, was 
published in the year 1522. This comprises 
Hebrew, Septuagint, Greek, Chaldaic, and 
Vulgate versions, and is a wonderful work. In 
Alcala also are kept the Alfonsine Tables, 
drawn up by Alfonso X. in the thirteenth 
century. 

" In the church of Santa Maria, Cervantes 
was christened, in 1547, and there is a record 
of his baptism by Bachiller Serrano. From 
Alcala upon the plains which line the bank of 
the muddy Henares, where the stately elms 
shade the wind-blown place, we come to Gua- 
dalajara on the Henares and not far from the 
lagus. 

"Is that the same river we saw at Aran- 
juez?" asked my friend. 

"Yes, it rises over to the east of Gua- 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 305 

dalajara. The city is the capital of the pro- 
vince of the same name. Francis I. was con- 
fined here on his way from Pavia to Madrid, 
and here he was feted with bull-fights and 
festas and tourneys, by the Duke del Infan- 
tado. Francis, wily as he was brave, chal- 
lenged the gouty old duke to single combat, 
but upon Infantado's applying to Charles V. 
for permission to fight, royal sanction for the 
unequal combat was refused. 

" There 's a fine palace here, belonging to 
the great Mendoza family, and a curious in- 
scription over the patio, where the stone griffins 
and lions keep watch. The inscription gives 
in detail all the names and titles of the 
founder, as if to glorify him as much as possi- 
ble, then ends with, ' Todo es vanidad,' quoting 
Solomon with would-be humility." 

"Is there any history or legend about this 
country?" asked the Pessimist, somewhat 
restive under all these statistics. 

'You 're getting to be a perfect cormorant 
for stories," I said. "Don't you think you 
could lay aside your desire to fill your mind, 
and eat your dinner? It 's a less elegant but 
quite as necessary an occupation. We are 
going to stop twenty minutes at Guadalajara, 
and nobody can tell when we shall have an- 
other chance to eat, for you know in what 
vagaries Spanish railway trains indulge." 



306 WITH A PESSIMIST TV SPAIN. 

We had polio con arros for dinner, or as it 

sometimes called, "arroza la Valenciana," 

luse it "s the great dish of the Valencianets, 

as the people of Valencia dub themselves. 

It is a delicious concoction, a savory stew 
with chicken, rice, sausages, and pimientos, or 

sweet Spanish peppers. It reminds one of the 
saying, "La bete se nourrit, L'homme 
mange. L'homme d'esprit seul soit diner;" 
and the Pessimist and I dined vigorously, fin- 
ishing with fruit and a draught of wine just as 
the train's whistle lazily remarked that it was 
time to go. 

Nothing in Spain shows the national char- 
acteristic more plainly than the various whis- 
tles. A boy goes whistling along the sunny 
road. His tone has none of the alert cheeriness 
of a Yankee farm-lad's pipe, the insolent pert 
shrillness of a Chicago Arab's. It sounds sedate 
and lazy. The factory whistles are loud and 
prolonged, and yet they never cry in shrill dis- 
content, "Make haste, make haste, cigarette 
girls, or you '11 lose your wages!" They 
politely suggest — for even whistles are polite 
in Spain — that if it so pleases, you may resume 
again those labors which you are gracious 
enough to engage in entirely for the good of 
your employers, not to mention your own 
peseta a day. 

Even the railroad whistles are reserved, 



ALL THE WAY TO ZARAGOZA. 307 

well-behaved affairs, gently reminding the 
most gracious passenger that if it so pleases 
him the train will start between the time of 
whistling and the morrow, perhaps. Not at all 
that there is any hurry. "To — ot ! To — ot!" 
slowly and civilly it says, but only that you, 
the stranger and guest, for whose sole benefit 
the train was run on that particular day, that 
you may reach your destination in good time, 
before the evening dews fall too heavily, and 
endanger the health of the most estimable 
Americana. 

Ah ! Spanish whistles — cousins very far re- 
moved from your shrieking, demoniacal, strid- 
ent, American relatives — dear Spanish whistles, 
I sing your praises loud and long! 

"Is not this a charming country?" I said to 
the Pessimist as our train wended its leisurely 
way through fields and meadows full of 
flowers. 

" Castles and towns in due proportion each, 

As by some skillful artist's hand portrayed; 

Here, crossed by many a wild sierra's shade, 

And boundless plains that tire the traveler's eye; 

There, rich with vineyard and with olive glade, 

Or deep-embrowned by forests huge and high, 

Or washed by mighty streams that slowly murmured by." 

"See," I cried, as we stopped at a village, 
"there is some excitement here. Look at 
those men, resplendent in costumes of black 
velvet and gold. I wonder what they can be." 



30S WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

I leaned far out of the window, watching 
the assembled peasants greeting the two men, 
and asked a guard what it all meant. 

"Hull-fighters, sefiorita," he said. "They 
have been to Madrid to the fights, and are 
come home for the wedding of Miguel. The 
tall one is Miguel Valdez, one of the best 
matadors in all Spain, and he marries Dolores 
Sanchez, sister of the other matador, Jose\ 
They are celebrated people, and all the village 
is joyous when they come home." 

They were superb fellows; tall, finely-built, 
every muscle developed and brought into play, 
their faces strong and yet not brutal ; they 
gave me a tinge of surprise that a sport so 
fierce and cruel should not leave ignoble traces 
upon the faces of its devotees. Much is said 
of the cruelty of the Spaniard, and it seems 
to be due to one thing. As a race, Span- 
iards are physically brave. They do not fear 
to suffer themselves; they suffer without 
a groan, and they can scarcely realize that 
others cannot so readily endure pain. They 
were originally hardy and vigorous warriors, 
used to giving and taking and to a rough and 
ready life. Since civilization has done away 
with much of this in the modern Don, it has 
failed utterly to make him gentle or mild. 

The proverbial cruelty of the Spanish, as a 
nation, will always be a mystery to those who, 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 309 

knowing individual Spaniards, feel the warmth 
of their friendship, the charm of their court- 
esy, the beauty of their family-life, and the 
genuine goodness of their hearts toward all 
whom they love. It almost seems as if this 
cruelty of theirs might be an inherent quality 
which they themselves did not realize — a sort 
of Berseker rage — unpremeditated and unin- 
tentional. 

We were nearing Siguenza, which is built 
on a knoll whose green slopes touch the 
Henares. 

"The city has massive walls and strong 
gates, and seems a veritable feudal strong- 
hold," I said. "How the castle towers above 
it all ! That is a fitting symbol of the power 
of the nobles in those old days when cities 
were almost unknown, and all the life, save 
that of the mere children of the plow, was 
clustered about the castle gates." 

"What is there at Siguenza?" asked the 
Pessimist. "I 'd like to hear something inter- 
esting." 

"I'll make up something, if you don't 
stop demanding wonders," I replied. "I 
firmly believe you are thirsting for horrors. Do 
you see that curious castellated building with 
flying buttresses ending in balls, and which has 
a balustraded parapet crowning the facade? 
That 's a wonderful old church, dating from 



310 WITH I PESSIMIST IN SPAIN, 

the twelfth century, and the interior is said to 
be one of the most striking in all Spain. 

"Many strange things have happened in 
this old Cathedral of Siguenza, and within its 
dim aisles and shadowy archways lurk mem- 
ories strange and wonderful. 'Twas in some 
such minster as this that King Pedro forced 
homage to Inez de Castro. Do you remem- 
ber the story? One of the numerous Infantes 
had married, without his parents' consent, 
Dona Inez, a daughter of the De Castros, and 
his stern father had refused to have her 
acknowledged as Infanta. The Infante Pedro 
remained faithful to her; but she fell ill, and 
died before he came to the throne. 

"At last his father died, and Pedro succeeded 
to the kingdom. His first act was to have 
his wife's body exhumed from the convent 
where it had lain embalmed for months. He 
mbled in the great cathedral a vast multi- 
tude of knights, squires, princes, and lords, 
and, crowning the inanimate form of his still 
beautiful queen, he commanded every one to 
do her homage. There she sat in state, in 
her costly robes of gold and pearls, a diadem 
upon her ebon locks above the brow so regal, 
yet so pale and 

" Beside her stood in silence 
One with a brow as pale 
And white lips rigidly compressed 
Lest the strong heart should fail, 



ALL THE WAV TO ZARAGOZA. 311 

King Pedro with a jealous eye 

Watching the homage done, 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyred one. 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the solem aisles 

In dark procession go; 
And the ring of state and the starry crown 

And all the rich array 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

With her, that queen of clay. 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, 
But his face was wrapped in his folding robe 

When they lowered the dust again. 
'T is hushed at last the tomb above — 

Hymns die, and steps depart. — 
Who called thee strong as Death, O Love? 

Mightier thou wast, and art!" 

"That is very fine," said the Pessimist, 
"but it seems rather unlike the ancient 
idea that 'a live dog is better than a dead 
lion.' There was little of such constancy, 
methinks." 

"Far more than one imagines," I answered. 
"I am more struck with that trait among 
Spaniards, than anything else. They seem to 
love but once, whatever the exigencies of Fate 
or Fortune. No matter how many times they 
may have to marry for reasons of state or any 
other cause, their hearts seem 'true to Poll ' 
in very many cases. Charles the Fifth never 
loved any but his Isabel of Portugal ; Ferdinand, 



31- WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

though he married Germaine de Foix, never 
cared for her; and remember Juana de Loca's 
devotion to that wretched, worthless Philippe 
le Bel. Do n't you recall Mrs. Hemans' verses 
about Queen Juana? 

"The night wind shook the tapestry round an ancient 

palace room, 
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the 

deepening gloom, 
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams 

and red, 
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by 

the dead. 

'They told me this was death, yet well I knew it could 
not be; 

Fairest and stateliest of the earth, who spoke of death 
for fit re? 

They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gal- 
lant form around, 

But I forbade, and there thou art a monarch robed and 
crowned! 

' Ah! when thou wak'st, my Prince, my Lord! and hear'st 

how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side and o'er thee prayed and wept; 
How in one long, deep dream of thee my nights and 

days have passed, 
Surely, my humble, patient love must win thee back at 

last!' 

In the still chamber of the dead thus poured forth day 

by day, 
The passion of that loving dream, from a troubled soul 

found sway, 
Until the shadows of the grave have swept o'er every 

grace 
Left, 'midst the awfulness of death, on the princely form 

and face. 



ALL THE WAY TO ZARAGOZA. 313 

And slowly sank the fearful truth within the watcher's 

breast, 
As they bore away the royal dead with requiem to his 

rest, 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the 

wind, — 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair 

behind!" 

"You seem to have an attack of poetry," 
said the Pessimist. 

'I have, and I have it badly," I answered 
serenely. "My mind is a literary scrap-bag; 
and just now I 'm making a crazy quilt, so it 
comes in very handy. We 're approaching a 
tunnel two thousand nine hundred and twenty- 
three feet long. I wonder why it is that any- 
thing which sounds especially fascinating in 
the guide-book is sure to have disappeared be- 
fore one reaches the place, while a 'tunnel,' 
or 'Fonda poor ' or 'palace closed for repairs ' 
always turns up with monotonous regularity." 
'Who's pessimistic now?" demanded my 
friend ; and I welcomed the two thousand nine 
hundred and twenty-three feet of tunnel at 
that moment, for it saved me a reply. 

"Do you see those hills? They are called 
Santa del Solorio, and are a spur of the Sierra 
del Guadarrama. We are coming to Calatayud. 
It was called Kalat-Ayub, or Castle of Ayub, 
and is one of the most important cities of 
Aragon," I said. "Martial was born there, 



'77/ .! Pi :'A/Y. 

it was a veritable stamping ground for 
-M>ors and Chr: 

" Th delightful mazmor- 

or gypsy ca jt out of the rock as t: 

ne at Granada, and the inhabitants are pic- 
turesque and generally interesting. Calatayud 
was captured by our friend Alfonso el Batalla- 
dor, in 1 120. 

ike, wake! the old soil where thy children repose, 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling 
The voices are mighty that swell from the p<- 
With Aragon's cry on the shrill mountain bla~ 
The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread, ' 
Their pines murmur song where bright bloodhath been 
shed." 

M re poetry ighed the I ist. 

"What river is tha: 

'The Jalon; but before long begins the 
Ebro. 

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain: 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! 
N 1 sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 

1 banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
How oft these rocks have echoed to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale. 
Of him renowned in old heroic lore, 
First of the brave, the gallant Cid Campeador. 
Of— ' " 

^pped suddenly, for the Pessimist had cast 
upon me an awful look. 

*^ou promised me solemnly that we would 
inter the Cid in Burgos, and I refuse pc 



ALL THE WAV TO ZARAGOZA. 315 

to hear even his name again. 'Let sleeping 
dogs lie,' " she said severely. 

"I beg your pardon. It wasn't I; 'twas 
Mrs. Hemans who mentioned him then," I 
said meekly. "We are nearing Zaragoza — 
and I will try not to poetize any more, for 
some time at least. You won't mind my 
humming 'Trovatore,' will you? In the dun- 
geon of La Torreto, Leonora's lover was con- 
fined and sang — 

" ' Ah! I have sighed to rest me! ' 

"The Aljaferia at Zaragoza is one of the most 
delightful sights in Spain. It was a Moorish 
palace, but afterwards became the residence of 
the Aragonese kings. It is used for barracks 
now, but has many interesting things about it. 
There is the salon of Santa Isabel where the 
Queen of Portugal was born in 1271. She 
was named for her aunt, Saint Elizabeth of 
Hungary (Isabel and Elizabeth are the same 
names), was daughter of Pedro III. of Aragon, 
and was famous for her sweetness and wisdom. 
The ceiling of the Aljaferia was gilded with 
the first gold Columbus brought from America. 
'There are all sorts of lovely old houses, 
dating from 1500, in Zaragoza, and it was a 
favorite residence with the nobles and cabal- 
Icros. I wish we could have been here on the 
twelfth of October, for that is the day of the 
great feast in honor of the Virgin del Pilar, 



31 6 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

and forty thousand pilgrims come here every 
year. The town is then beautifully dec- 
orated and lighted." 

"We saw enough of fiestas in Seville," said 
the Pessimist. "Oh! what is that?" 

"The dome of Our Lady of the Pillar. Is 
it not wonderful? See the sunset glow on 
the blue and gold Moorish tiles of the great 
dome. How beautifully the Ebro winds about 
under that dark bridge, with its arches over- 
grown in moss and vines. Quaint old Zara- 
goza, we have reached you at last ; famous in 
song and story, favorite city of the Kings of 
Aragon, beloved by Saint Iago, and visited by 
the Blessed Virgin, so says tradition and 
legend, with which your narrow streets and 
shadowy corners are rife. Delightful Zara- 
goza — " 

I ceased, for during my rhapsody the Pessi- 
mist had been reading the guide-book, and 
interrupted with "Zaragoza, also famous for 
pneumonia and intermittent fevers, changeable 
climate, the cicrzo (cold west wind) and 
bocJwrno (hot east wind); for brackish water, 
hence the saying, 'Mas comemos de lo que" 
hebemos ' ('We eat more than we drink'); 
for — " but I interrupted in my turn. 

"You 're only trying to be pessimistic now. 
The east wind and west wind do n't blow 
both at once. Every climate is changeable ; 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 317 

and as for the brackish water we will break off 
a piece now and then, as they say they do in 
Saint Louis. Or else we will drink Cariftena 
*wine, which is famous everywhere. 

"One has to drink wine sometimes in Spain, 
or live to wish she had. Come, come Pes- 
simist; here we are in the nice railway station. 
We 're going to like old Caesaria Augusta which 
the Moors called Zaragoza. We '11 have dinner, 
and meantime here is some poetry for you, 
and a nice legend : 

" ' At Sansuena, in a tower, 

Fair Melisendra lies; 
Her heart is far away in France 

And tears are in her eyes. 
The twilight shade is thickening laid 

On Sansuena's plain, 
Yet wistfully the lady dear 

Her weary eyes doth strain,'" 

I quoted. * 'Sansuena was the old name for 
Zaragoza, and Melisendra had been conquered 
by Moors. Gayferos, her gallant husband, 
hunted all over Spain, but obtained no glimpse 
of his wife, and she thought he had deserted 
her. Seven years she was captive; and one 
day she leaned from out her turret window, 
and a horseman came across the plain. She 
talked with him long, bemoaning her lot. At 
last he revealed himself, and she let herself 
down from the tower, and eloped with her own 
husband. 



318 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

" ' And he hath kissed her pale, pale i heeks, 
And lifted her up behind. 
St. Denis speed their milk-white steed, 
No Moor their path shall find.' 

1 'So they got away safe into France. This 
is the very Sansuena; and so picturesque is it 
that I feel as if a gay knight lurked within 
each shadow, and that the balconies were full 
of lovely maidens." 

We reached Zaragoza late in the afternoon, 
and were very tired, but an excellent table 
d'hote at the Hotel de las Cuatro Naciones 
revived us, and we started out to see the old 
Aragonese city which lies so beautifully upon 
the vega between the Ebro and Gallego. 

It was cool and pleasant; a soft breeze came 
from the olive-covered hills where snowy villas 
gleamed in the summer moonlight, seeming 
like white birds, with their wings folded in rest. 

Zaragoza is quaint beyond description, and 
the effect of its narrow streets, tall dark 
houses, and plain architecture gives something 
almost war-like to the very air one breathes, 
and its fortress-like towers and turrets stand 
out like sentinels against the sky. 

The city has been the scene of the most ter- 
rific conflicts. It was always a mooted point 
with the Moors, and torn by inward dissen- 
sions. During the Peninsular War its record 
is extraordinary. 



ALL THE WAV TO ZARAGOZA. 319 

General Lefevre-Desnouettes besieged the 
place, and said he would soon conquer it, 
Vmalgri les t rente mille idiots que s'y oppo- 
teraient" but he had to fall back, as the self- 
same "idiots " did not in the least know when 
they were beaten, and refused to yield. 

It was during the second siege that Palafox 
distinguished himself. He was a young hijo 
of Zaragoza, as bold as a lion, the idol of the 
people, and he led them on where they would 
follow no organized authority. 

11 Guerra al cue Julio!" was the cry, and the 
Aragonese, as brave as they were haughty, held 
out against cannon, onslaught and famine. 
Men and women fought like heroes, and 
here it was that Augustina, the Maid of Zara- 
goza, distinguished herself. When her lover 
fell, she mounted his gun and fired it for 
him; and, as Byron said, the French were 
"foiled by a woman's hand before a battered 
wall." 

When the surrender at last had to be made, 
it was upon the most honorable terms, and 
the siege of Zaragoza has gone down to his- 
tory as famous, with Saguntum, Numantia 
and Troy. 

"Ah, Zaragoza — blighted be the tongue 

That names thy name without the honor due. 
For never hath the harp of minstrel rung 
Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true. 



320 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruin knew; 

Each art of war's extremity had room; 
Twice from thy half-sacked streets the foe withdrew; 
And if at length, stern fate decreed thy doom, 
They won not Zaragoza, but her children's bloody tomb." 

The Pessimist and I went as soon as we 
could to see the Leaning Tower* one of the 
wonders of Spain. It was built in 1504, and 
is an octagonal clock tower of beautiful work- 
manship, leaning ten feet, owing to a faulty 
foundation. There it stood in the Plaza de 
San Felipe, and we came toward it slowly, 
our guide talking of the streets through which 
we passed. This, was the Calle de Jaime 
First; that, the street of Palafox, heaped with 
dead and dying once, when the beautiful Ebro 
seemed a river of blood. 

He was a wonderful creature, that guide; 
tall and stalwart, for the hardy northern 
Spaniards are larger and more sturdy than 
the Andalucians, if not so graceful. His 
hair was the soft, cloudy black which lies 
so lightly above the brow ; his skin the pale, 
clear olive, with no color to mar the perfect 
hues of brow and cheek; his lips carmine 
under his slight black moustache. His 
eyes were large and dark and liquid beneath 
their long lashes, and he wore a cloak thrown 
gracefully over one shoulder, and on his head 

* In 1894, this was destroyed owing to its unsafe 
condition. 




Tin I.i INING Tow i i. \ i / \i. \(,o/\ 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 321 

a dark bcrrct, pulled to one side over his tem- 
ple with that unconscious picturesqueness 
which is a Spaniard's birthright, as are his 
pride and his loyalty. 

He took us to the cathedral, La Seo as it 
is called, which existed in 290 A.D., when 
Saint Valerio was bishop. A mosque, a 
church, and a cathedral, it has grown by de- 
grees, built little by little, and is a strange 
mixture as to architecture. 

Pillars, statues and towers, Corinthian, 
Graeco-Roman, and plateresque, all are mingled 
in its construction with better result and more 
grace and harmony than one would deem pos- 
sible. This church has been to Aragon what 
that of Rheims was to France, for the kings 
were crowned here, and here many magnificent 
rites and ceremonies have been performed. 

" A dim and mighty minster of old time, 
A temple shadowy with remembrances 
Of the majestic past; the very light 
Streams with a coloring of heroic days 
In every ray which leads through arch and aisle 
A path of dreamy lustre; the rich fretted roof; 
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 
Ivy and vine and many a sculptured rose, 
The tenderest image of mortality, 
Binding the slender columns whose light shafts 
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves." 

"In the Trascora, sefioritas," said the 
guide, "was where the Blessed Virgin ap- 
peared to Canon Fuenes, and spoke to him. 



$2 2 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

And she spoke, of course, Aragonese-Spanish, 

with the old Limousin pronunciation. Some, 

indeed, there are who say she spoke Castilian, 

and that that is the purest Spanish, but we 

Aragonese know better, sefioritas. Now you 

must see El Pilar, for we have two cathedrals 

here in Zaragoza, you know. When Santiago 

came to Spain, of course he came to Zaragoza; 

and in a dream Our Blessed Mother came to 

him, and she stood upon a pillar and told him 

she desired a chapel built in her honor, and on 

that very spot. When Santiago awoke, he at 

once started to build, and from that came 

Nuestra Scnora del Pilar. The great bell of 

the cathedral always tolls without any human 

hand at the rope, before the death of a king 

of Spain." 

"I remember that story," I said. 

" Heard you last night the sound of Santiago's bell? 
How sullenly from the great tower it pealed 

Ay, and 't is said, 
No mortal hand was near, when so it seemed 
To shake the midnight street, 

Too well we know 
The sound of coming Fate. 'T is ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house." 

The cathedral of El Pilar is a great contrast 
to La Seo, a huge edifice, looking rather un- 
finished and with many, colored domes and a 
magnificent view across the Ebro, upon whose 
banks it lies. 



ALL THE WAV TO ZARAGOZA. 323 

The interior contains the jasper pillar upon 
which the Blessed Virgin stood, when she ap- 
peared to Saint James and asked him to build 
a chapel for her, and the Virgin's treasures, 
which were plundered by the French to the 
extent of one hundred and forty thousand dol- 
lars. 

As we stood in the dark street, suddenly a 
lantern flashed upon us, and a voice spoke to the 
guide. Such a mediaeval figure! We saw a tall 
man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, which, flung 
aside, showed a dagger in his belt ; a soft hat was 
on one side his head, and in one hand a bunch of 
keys, while from the wrought-iron Moresque 
lantern in the other there flashed a strong 
light. 

It made ghostly shadows creep from the 
moonlit crevices, and we asked eagerly, "What 
is he?" 

" El scrcno, senoritas," said Felipe; "every 
night he comes to watch the street. If thieves 
break in, one raises a window and cries, 'Ser- 
eno! Sereno!' If one is ill, the sereno calls a 
doctor. If one comes home very late by 
chance, and feels not quite as in the morning, 
and cannot perhaps find the keyhole, the 
scrcno comes and lights him home, and with 
lis huge key opens the house door. So, too, 
perhaps, if one must have a wife who owns a 
tongue, the good sereno saves him from a 



324 WITH A PESSIMIST I.Y SPAIN. 

scolding at coming in so late. Ah! the sereno 

is a good fellow, and one without whom the 
night would be a terror here in Spain." 

" 1 las he keys to all the doors?" I asked. 

"Each one; that is, all those within his own 
square. Adios, Sefior Sereno," he cried as 
the man, satisfied that we were not molesters 
of the peace, went down a dark street. 

"I shall sleep better, now I know we're 
done up in cotton wool by cl sereno" said 
the Pessimist. 

I laughed, for one of her eccentricities is to 
sleep, peacefully, all night, and assure one 
in the morning that she hasn't closed her 
eyes. 

"The university is fine. Will the sefioritas 
see it, or go to a cafd cliantant and see some 
dances?" asked Felipe. 

"Oh, dances by all means!" we cried. 
"We have universities at home." And we hur- 
ried away to the Caso, a fine street and broad, 
with shops and lights and a merry crowd. 

I had a guilty conscience. I was neglecting 
the university, where many famous men had 
been educated, and which claims the honor of 
having had Goya ("Francisco Goya y Lu- 
cientes, Pintor Espanol," as he signed him- 
self) among its pupils. I do not like Goya, 
and there are artistic souls who accuse me of 
not doing justice to his genius. I do not deny 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 325 

his power, and it may be a case of "I do not 
like thee, Doctor Fell," but to me, much of his 
work is grotesque and weird, if not grewsome. 

However, when one has a guilty conscience, 
it is always a good thing to stir up some one 
else and have company, and I felt it my duty 
also to improve the Pessimist's mind, so I 
said : 

"I am astonished at you. You should 
long for the seat of learning where Goya dis- 
ported himself. Do n't you know that he is 
considered one of the greatest of Spanish 
painters? He was a artist, soldier, bull- 
fighter, and nearly everything else, and led a 
roving life, blessed, however, with a wife who 
forgave him everything, and that meant much, 
sabe Dios! His subjects portrayed every type 
from prince to beggar, and the student of cos- 
tumbres could study him forever. When he 
died at Bordeaux in 1828 he left many remark- 
able examples of his marked but eccentric 
genius, and perhaps the best known of his 
works is the painting of our friends Saints Jus- 
tina and Rufina, of Sevillian fame. Shame 
upon you, Pessimist, that you 're not inter- 
ested in him." 

"He 's not here, or I might be," she re- 
plied, unmoved. "As it is, I prefer our 
guide." 

The cafd chantant was an odd affair. We 



ja6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

entered a large room, so filled with smoke it 

seemed that one could cut it with a knife; but 

soon we grew used to it, and saw a dais upon 

which sat the musicians, with a piano, bass* 

viol, two violins, flute, and clarionet. The 

men played well, with much spirit, and the 

dancing was marvellous. 

" When f<>r the light bolero ready stands 

The moso blithe, with gay muchacha met, 
He conscious of his broidered cap and bands, 
She of her netted locks and light corsette, 
Each, tiptoe perched, to spring and shake the castanet." 

Not so seductive as the Sevillian, the Zota, 
or true Aragonese dance, is more spirited, and 
quite as graceful. The men, especially, were 
charming in their curious costumes. They 
wore red kerchiefs around their heads, black 
corduroy knee-breeches, a loose upper gar- 
ment of gay stripes belted at the waist, and 
white hose, with high-heeled shoes. 

"Andalucia for fair women, and Aragon for 
brave men," I whispered to the Pessimist. 
"Are n't they splendid?" 

"Yes, indeed!" she answered, "I never 
saw finer;" and we sipped our coffee from the 
huge iron-stone china cups contentedly. Each 
cup had a little tin sugar-saucer which fitted 
the top of it, and no cream was provided. 
The people sat at small tables, chatting and 
laughing, and though the furniture of the 
place was most primitive, and the people evi- 



ALL THE WAT TO ZARAGOZA. 



3 2 7 



dently of the hoi polloi, every one was gay, 
happy and courteous. We wandered home, 
charmed with our visit to Zaragoza by moon- 
light. 

"Pessimist," I asked, "what do you think 
of Felipe?" as we stood on our balcony and 
watched his graceful figure in picturesque 
cloak as he went down the street and whis- 
tled a few bars from the Marcha Real: 




"He's out of a story-book," she said. 
"He looks like Linnaeus or Dante, or somebody 
I 've seen pictures of, and is as perfect a type 
as was Diego at Granada, mediaeval and not 
fin de siecle," I said. ''He might be a noble 
or Don, Infante or prince. 

Oh! Spanish guide, with dusky eyes 

Aglow with thought and passion, 
I wonder oft, if in thee lies, 

In some strange guise or fashion, 
The spirit of Don Rodrigo, 

Or Moor or old Castilian 
Who, where the Ebro's waters flow, 

Has danced with cheeks vermillion, 
And played his graceful mandolin 

To many Spanish ladies, 
Or with the war-cry fierce, ' To Win! 1 

Has drawn his sword at Cadiz. 



CHAPTER XXI. 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY. 



'^^^ U-<^^^ f 




(&g^£^Y»^iWiifll 



O the west the grand peaks 
of the Sierra de Alcu- 
bierre, and around us an 
uninteresting country; 
few trees except olives, 
here and there, like soft 
gray-green balls; villages 
few and far between ; and some vine-clad hills. 
The Pessimist and I were nearing Monzon, 
where the Cinca river divides Aragon from 
Catalufia. 

"On the height above the town is a very 
old castle, repaired by the Templars in 1143, 
and given to them by the famous Count 
Ramon Berenguer, " I said. 'Those old 
ruins on the second height are Roman. We 
are soon to reach Lerida, on the Segre, over 
which is a fine bridge. Lerida is the capital 
of a province, and has twenty-three thousand 
inhabitants. It was Roman, Gothic, Moor- 
ish, and now is merely a ruin ; but the old 
cathedral is one of the most interesting in 

328 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY. 329 

Spain. In the new cathedral are kept our 
Lord's swaddling clothes, said to have been sent 
to the King of Tunis by the Sultan Saladin, 
in 1238, and stolen thence by a slave. 

The great plains are called Llanos de Urgel, 
and stretch for miles toward the Pyrenees 
where the Urgel prince-bishops hold sway. 

The Pessimist could not keep awake to hear 
me prose about Lerida and Cervera, and the 
little towns through which we passed. Even 
Manresa did not awaken her, picturesque as it 
is on the Cardona's banks. 

Near here is the great salt mine at Cardona, 
a regular salt mountain, five hundred feet in 
height, and belonging to the Duke of Medi- 
naceli. It was not until the guard called 
"Monistrol " that she awoke, and we gathered 
together our wraps and hurried from the car. 
There was a neat station, filled with pilgrims, 
and an obliging porter helped us into the little 
funicular, a small tram, a cross between street 
and railway cars. 

In a very few moments we were steaming 
up the side of Montserrat over a strange 
circuitous route, now tunneling the dark 
mountain, now peering into a deep gorge, 
now surmounting crags and peaks, then shoot- 
ing around curves, sharp enough to make one 
dizzy as, looking directly below, one saw the 
very track one had traversed a moment before. 



33° WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

Above us towered the mountains, their 
granite rocks crowned with peaks and points 
of curious formations. Serrated ami jagged* 
they stood out grimly against the sunset sky, 
like the huge teeth of some Titan's saw. He- 
low were pines and wooded hills, and through 
the distant valley, which stretched in green 
loveliness, wound the slender ribbon of the 
river — the Llobregat. 

Beyond, far beyond, rose-hued and fair, 

against the blue sky gleamed the snows of the 

Pyrenees, tinged with the rays of the setting 

sun, which shed abroad such loveliness as to 

bathe his death-bed in regal splendor. We 

were 

" In si^ht 
Of the snow-crowned Sierras freely sweeping, 
With many an eagle's eyrie on the height, 
And hunter's cabin by a torrent peeping, 
Far off; and vales between and vineyards lay 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way, 
And chestnut woods that girt the happy, sleeping 
In many a peasant home." 

Up and up our car climbed, until after two 
hours, we reached the monastery gates. 

1 ' This is a strange place, ' ' said I to my friend, 
as we asked admission at the porter's lodge. 
"There is no regular charge and no hotel, 
only a cafe, where one can get meals, though 
many pilgrims bring a sack of bread and pota- 
toes over their shoulders, and roast the pota- 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY. 331 

toes at a little fire, eating nothing but their 
own provender while they remain here. We 
get a key from the porter, are assigned to a 
cell, and when we leave we give him exactly 
what remuneration we please." 

A young monk brought us a huge iron key, 
and bade us follow him ; and out of the dingy 
office we went, up a steep flight of stone steps, 
dark as Erebus, through gloomy halls, down a 
long corridor with doors on each side. One of 
these iron-barred portals our guide unlocked, 
and, handing us the key, disappeared. Such a 
room! A veritable monk's cell, though in a 
part of the monastery now unused by the 
brothers themselves, and kept for hospitality 
to those strangers or pilgrims whom chance, 
curiosity, or piety brings hither. 

The furniture, if such it could be called, was 
plain, almost rude. Two curtained iron beds 
contained rough mattresses, coarse sheets, and 
a blanket, all scrupulously clean. There was 
a small iron stand, holding a basin and 
mug, while a huge old-fashioned ewer stood 
upon the floor of dark flags, while the ceil- 
ing of wooden rafters was painted in alter- 
nate stripes of dull red and blue. The walls 
were roughly whitewashed, and upon them 
hung a small hand-glass and a wooden crucifix. 
Two wooden chairs completed the furniture of 
the cell. 



TH A PES SIM /ST IX SPA/ 

I stepped to the window to look out. What 
a wonderful scene ! The window opened upon 
a tiny balcony, which overhung the square 
court of the monasu~ To the left were the 
huge old buildings, rising dark and grim against 
the To the right the mountains towered 

above us, while in front the hills sloped down 
to the beautiful valleys. The moon was rising, 
and seemed to rest tenderly upon the old, 
gray church, and to :: . : the gnarled tree 
trur th romance and grace as though 

some knightly spirit lived within them. 

"It is a wonderful place." I said to 
companion. ' * I do not wonder that one of 
the greatest minds of his age was impressed 
Montserrat, and found it his Sinai. 
There is something truly inspiring in the ma- 
ic solitude of such a spot. Great thoughts 
come to one, and great deeds grow from great 
thoughts. Loyola must, indeed, have formed 
his plan of life while on his vigil in that beau- 
tiful old church over there 

What had he to do with Montserral 
said the Pessim:-:. "Tell me about him." 
settling herself to listen. 

'Ignatius Loyola was the youngest son of 

Spanish Don, and was born in 1491 
Guipuzcoa. Even as a boy he showed rare 
virtues, and his father placed him at the court 
as page to King Ferdinand of Castile. Loyal, 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY. 333 

brave, chivalrous, with charming and graceful 
manners, he was soon a court favorite, but his 
vigorous nature preferred rather the stirring 
life of the camp. Here he was the idol of his 
soldiers, but being wounded at Pampeluna he 
was captured by the French. Such had been 
the prodigies of valor which Loyola had per- 
formed, that the French sent him to his own 
home to have his wound healed. During the 
time of his convalescence the inaction tried 
his gallant spirit, and one day he chanced — as 
men call it — upon a volume of the 'Lives of 
the Saints.' The courage and patience of 
those whose lives he read appealed to him, and 
he determined to endeavor to lead such a life. 
"Upon his recovery he set out in secret for 
the Monastery of Montserrat. The monks of 
this monastery, Benedictines, received Igna- 
tius gladly, and his first act was to exchange 
his fine garments with a poor pilgrim, taking 
the beggar's plain penitential robe in place of 
his knightly robes ; his next was to make the 
vicril of arms in the church. 



*&' 



" Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone 

With a free and stately tread, 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead. 
The silent ones that round him lay, 

Not crowned and helmed they were, 
Nor haughty chiefs of war array 

Each in his sepulchre. 



334 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

But the sword of many a field was there, 
With its cross for the hour of need, 

When the knights' bold war-cry sunk in prayer, 
And the spear was a broken reed. 

Hush! did a breeze through the armor sigh? 

Did the fold of the banner shake? 
Not so; from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seemed a voice to break; 
And it said, 'The sword hath conquered kings 

And the spear through realms hath passed; 
But the cross alone of all these things 

Might aid me at the last.' " 

"As did the esquires of old, on the eve of 
their knighthood, so Ignatius Loyola watched 
all night before the famous altar of Nuestra 
Seftora de Montserrat. Laying his knightly 
sword on the altar, he knelt in prayer, offer- 
ing his life to God, and when the morning 
broke he set forth upon his pilgrimage, little 
thinking that for centuries the place of his 
vigil would be shown to strangers from strange 
lands, and his name be revered for genera- 
tions. 

11 Upon leaving Montserrat, Loyola was 
accosted by an officer of justice, who said to 
him, 'Sir Pilgrim, is it true that thou hast 
given thy suit of fine raiment to a poor beg- 
gar? In the valley below there lies in the 
prison one who swears thou hast given him 
thy robes, taking his in exchange, and we hold 
him there to know if he speaks truth.' 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTERY. 335 

" 'It is true. I beg of you release the 
man,' cried Ignatius, much chagrined that his 
first act of charity should have done ill rather 
than good. 'The cloak was of scarlet velvet, 
marked out in gold and fur, and the small 
clothes were of green.' 

"After seeing the beggar released, Loyola 
continued his journey to Manresa. There he 
worked in the hospital, tending the most loath- 
some cases, practising severities upon himself, 
but always gentle and tender to others. His 
broad, high forehead was furrowed deep with 
care; his dark eyes had a far-away look; his 
large firm mouth was kindly and sweet; and 
he combined strength with gentleness in an 
unusual degree. The promise of his youth 
was fulfilled, for there has seldom been a more 
remarkable character. Noble by birth, he 
humbled himself to lowly service; proud, 
he became humble; a soldier, he became 
a monk; and through all his career of 
toil, privation, danger and ill-health, he pres- 
erved his clear mind and wonderful judg- 
ment. 

"One of the greatest societies ever formed 
was founded by him, and his followers go 
from ocean to ocean, and almost from pole to 
pole ; and even those who do not believe in 
nor sympathize with his aims cannot fail to 
admire the heroism of his followers, and the 



WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAIN. 

character of Saint Ignatius Loyola, founder of 
the Society of Jesu- 

"Who founded Montserrat, and why was 
so famous?" asked the Pessimist, as I ceased 
talking. 

Cristobal de Virues, the poet, who lived in 
the sixteenth century, and was one of the 
greatest Spanish poets, wrote a dramatic epic 
called the 'Montserrat,' I said; "and he 
tells the story of the founding of the mon- 
aster}-. 

"Garin, the hermit, living within the rocks 
and fastnesses hereabouts, committed a horri- 
ble murder, but was seized with remorse, and 
went to Rome to beg absolution. This he 
received, but only with severe penance, being 
forced to grovel as a beast, and not look up to 
heaven for months, because his crime had been 
one of such unusual magnitude, a murder, 
cruel beyond words. However, his penitence 
was so sincere that the Blessed Virgin ap- 
peared to him in a vision and restored life to 
the one he had murdered. In gratitude to 
her, and in her honor, Garin founded a 
monastery in the very place where his crime 
had been committed, and from that has grown 
Montserrat. 

"It is extraordinary how strong a hold the 
idea of reparation and penance has upon the 
Spanish mind. Spaniards seem to have a 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTER!'. 337 

genuine feeling that they must offer up their 
lives to atone for their crimes. It is abso- 
lutely astonishing how many Spanish nobles 
are in monasteries even at the present day, 
serving patiently, often as lay-brothers, giving 
up the world and all they hold dear, in expia- 
tion for some youthful faults." 

The next day we set forth to discover the 
beauties of the "jagged mountains," and our 
first visit was to the church where Loyola 
made his famous vigil. It is a beautiful struc- 
ture, though the old portion is nearly de- 
stroyed, with only a Byzantine portal and a 
section of the lovely Gothic cloisters remaining. 

"It 's all very well for you to descant upon 
reverence," said the Pessimist, "but I cannot 
understand how anybody can have the least 
feeling of sentiment for that queer, little black 
doll they call, 'Our Lady of Montserrat.' " 

"To understand one thing a person gener- 
ally has to comprehend a dozen others," I an- 
swered. "First of all the Spaniards like dark 
people; then, think from what rude ages that 
statue has come down, and remember the 
Spanish bump of reverence for anything their 
fathers have had. There is little use in rea- 
soning over what people believe, for while of 
course they should have 'a reason for the 
faith that is in them,' they cannot help their 
beliefs (in a certain sense), any more than they 



33 S WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

can help their affections. Then you must 
recall the story of the discovery of this statue. 
In the year 880, Bishop Gondemar, hearing 
shepherds say that lights were seen, and 
strange noises heard upon the 'jagged mount- 
ain,' went there to discover what were the 
causes. 

"In a cave he found this small statue of the 
Blessed Virgin, said to have been carved by 
Saint Luke. Concealed by the Bishop of 
Barcelona when the Moors invaded Catalufia, 
it was left in the cave at Montserrat. 

"Bishop Gondemar tried to carry the statue 
away to Manresa, but it grew heavier at every 
step, and at last the bearers concluded that it 
wished to remain at Montserrat. A shrine 
was made, and a church built, and to this day 
it has been one of the greatest places of pil- 
grimage ever known." 

"The scenery is certainly worth a visit," 
said my companion, as we climbed the moun- 
tain sides together. The narrow path was 
steep and rocky, yet bordered with shrubs 
and a rich variety of flowers — hepaticas, 
jonquils, daisies, holly, and ivy vines running 
wild and tangling everything. Tiny chapels 
were scattered along the route, consisting of 
small rooms inclosed with iron railings, each 
having at the end an unpretending shrine, and 
on the floors of these were votive offerings of 



A MOUNTAIN MONASTER T. 339 

money, anything from a copper penny to a 
golden ducat. 

The valley below, with its white villages, 
churches, and green fields, was even more 
beautiful in the light of the morning sun than 
it had been the evening before. We hated 
leaving the wonderful prospect even long 
enough to see the caves, yet did not wish to 
miss them, since they are among the wonders 
of Spain. It takes six hours to see them all, 
so we contented ourselves with a glimpse at 
two or three. 

The Grata de la Esperanza is a large grotto 
with a stalactite roof, leading to another cave 
called El Camarin. Beyond is the Boudoir of 
the Sylphs, and still farther on the Devil's 
Well, twenty yards deep. The interiors of these 
caves and grottoes are most unusual. They 
have stalactite roofs, many of them boast- 
ing stalagmites as well, and the walls are in- 
crusted with calcareous shapes. The stalactites 
have in places formed huge pillars, which gleam 
as if powdered with diamond dust and are 
tinged with rainbow hues. We reached the 
light of day, gasping for breath, muddy and 
tired, for it was a serious undertaking, but 
even the Pessimist enthusiastically declared 
that she "would n't have missed it for any- 
thing." 

The chain of which Montserrat is a part is 



340 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

a spur of the Pyrenees. It is thirty-three 
hundred and ninety feet above the level of the 
sea, and worn by wind and weather into the 
"aiguilles " which form so strange an adjunct 
to the varied scenes. 

"We leave for Barcelona in a few minutes," 
I said, "and I must go and pay our dues. 
Our meals at the Fonda have not cost much, 
and have been excellent, and as for our cell 
here in the Hospederia we pay what we 
choose, though the guide-book says a dollar a 
day is the usual price. Is it worth it, Pessi- 
mist?" 

She made no reply for a moment. She 
looked out of the window once more at the 
magnificent sweep of grandeur from sky to 
valley, and then she said thoughtfully, as she 
turned away to prepare for our journey, 

"I think even I could be good up here. 
It 's the nearest heaven we have been in all 
Spain." 

"Literally or metaphorically?" I asked, as 
usual most flippant when most deeply moved. 

The Pessimist answered laconically: 

"Both!" 



CHAPTER XXII. 



THE SPANISH GENOA. 



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ROM Monistrol to Barce- 
lona is only a two hours' 
ride, and the Pessimist 
and I reached the great 
seaport town early in the 
evening. 

"The nicest thing we 
have seen on this trip was the flag dog," said 
she as we neared Barcelona. 

"It was the cleverest thing, the way he 
took the flag from the train-man there on the 
peak of the mountain, and, holding it in his 
mouth, waved it to signal all was well." 

"The scenery was superb," I said, "but 
one is almost glad to descend to the ordinary 
plane of existence again. I liked seeing the 
peasants there at Montserrat. They seemed 
simple and devoted, quite unlike those noisy 
French pilgrims who pervaded the whole place 
and made everything smell of garlic. They 
chattered continually, and the Spaniards were 
so quiet. Well, we are getting nearer France 

34i 



3P WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

every day, and somebody calls Barcelona the 
Spanish Paris. We arc to stay at the Fonda 
Oriente, which is a Spanish hotel; most of 
them lure arc French or Italian." 

"What a beautiful street!" cried the Pessi- 
mist, who, with her usual perversity, seemed 
determined to like Barcelona, principally be- 
cause she saw I did not. 

"That 's the Rambla, a sort of miniature 
Champs filysccs, " I said. It was a fine 
street, with handsome buildings and large 
trees bordering a park which ran through the 
middle of the street. The lights were bril- 
liant, the crowds of people gay, the scene 
bright, but wholly French. There were little 
tables at the sides of the street, people drink- 
ing, laughing, chatting, and everywhere was 
mirth and jollity, all the abandon with which 
the French take their pleasures, and none of 
the Spanish grace and dignity. 

"Alas! I feel as if we were leaving Spain 

to-night, for this is as truly *un petit Paris' 

Brussels, and as much of an anachronism as 

a sereno would be on the Bois de Boulogne," 

I cried. 

Next day it was even worse to one so 
afflicted with Spanish fever as was I. Barce- 
lona is a fine city. Everything has been 
showered upon it of wealth and beauty of 
situation to make it delightful. Mountains 



THE SPANISH GENOA. 343 

form a background for its plains, fine trees 
thrive in its balmy breezes, flowers blossom in 
its many parks; indeed, nowhere since Anda- 
lucia had we seen such a wealth of flowers of 
every variety as those which perfumed the 
soft June air. 

The harbor stretching along the Paseo de 
las Acacias from the Barceloneta to the fort 
of Atarazanas, is one of the finest on the 
Mediterranean coast, and it is a beautiful sight 
as one looks down upon it from the Castle of 
Monjuich. This is the largest of the many 
fortifications of Barcelona, and is south of the 
town, on a high hill. Its name comes from 
Mons Jovis, and it has often been the object 
of the fiercest attacks, since to possess it was 
to command the town. 

The view is a beautiful one, yet, in spite of 
its unrivaled situation, its splendid dower of 
churches and monuments, its energetic manu- 
factories, its affable people, its unsurpassed 
harbor, thronged with shipping, Barcelona is a 
city of trade, of seaport activity, of French 
life, modern and agreeable, yet nowhere and 
in no way Spanish nor romantic. 

''We arc leaving romance and the Middle 
Agt I said to the Pessimist. "Historic- 

ally, Barcelona is interesting, for Hamilcar, 
the Carthaginian, founded it in 237 B.C., and 
Cesar made it 'colonial calling it Julia Au- 



344 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

gusta. Ataulfo, first Gothic king, brought his 
court hither, and made it the capital of His- 
pania-Gothia. Abdul-Aziz conquered the 
city, but the Moors did not long retain it, for 
Charlemagne came, saw, and coveted. 'God 
free me from my friends who come to aid me 
with my enemies' is an old Spanish proverb, 
ever since Charlemagne came to help the 
Christians drive out the Moors, and quietly 
annexed Barcelona to his duchy of Aquit- 
aine. 

"The city was governed by counts, and was 
prosperous with a great Levantine trade, 
rivaling Genoa and Venice. Barcelona has 
always been revolutionary, and her people 
seem to possess the turbulence and vivacity of 
the French and little of the sturdy loyalty of 
the Spaniards. The Barcelonettas were so 
jealous of Castile that no account can be 
found in the annals of the city of Columbus' 
magnificent entry into the harbor, when he 
had given a new world to the Spanish sove- 
reign. 

"Laces, silks, and all sorts of beautiful 
things are to be bought here — " I stopped in 
dismay. A slow, pleased smile had spread 
itself over the face of my companion, and I 
knew in an instant that my rash speech had 
precluded any sight-seeing for the nonce. 

Some people take to shopping as naturally 



THE SPANISH GENOA. 345 

as a duck to water. The Pessimist loved it, 
not buying things she needed or really wanted 
or had the money for — any woman likes that. 
There 's something radically wrong about a 
woman who does not like buying pretty things 
wherewith to adorn her home or help to make 
herself lovely in the eyes of those she loves. 
But shopping is quite different. Shopping 
means looking for hours at things you do n't 
want and can 't afford, and buying a few be- 
cause you 're " ashamed not to buy anything," 
and because things are "such bargains," and 
you "may want them some day." 

"Let 's go shopping," said my friend; and 
as I had not the strength to combat her evi- 
dent determination, nor the heart to disturb 
her open delight, I weak-kneedly agreed, and 
we went. My advice to another is "Don't /" 
As sure as crops fail in Kansas, the result will 
be bankruptcy. We paraded the Rambla, 
and bought lace which was like frost spun on 
cobwebs; we haunted the Calle de la Plateria, 
and squandered our substance on silver fili- 
gree. Not only everything exquisite and deli- 
cate of modern ware, but rare bits of antique, 
such as made one's mouth water, so to speak. 
Of course we bought a pair of the earrings 
which the paycsas wear, though what we were 
to do with them neither of us knew. Then 
came fans, not so fascinating as those at Se- 



34 6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

ville and Madrid, but tempting enough — gay, 
lacy, French affairs, and ivory carvings of 
every kind, and silks without number at 
almost a song for cheapness. The Pessimist 
was incorrigible. Nothing stopped her. 

"There 's a picture gallery in the Paseo Pe- 
jares," I hazarded. "Fine libraries, a museum 
of natural history, some of the best theatres 
in Spain, hospitals — " 

"Just look at this mantilla. It 's only six 
dollars, almost a shawl, and of such a beauti- 
ful design. I shall know what 'real Spanish ' 
means hereafter when applied to laces," was 
her reply. 

"The university is near the Plaza de Cata- 
lufla. It 's a fine pile of buildings, founded 
in 1873, and is the best of all the Spanish uni- 
versities. There are twenty-five hundred stu- 
dents — " 

"They 're the ones who burned our flag," 
said the shopper. "I 'm going to get a dozen 
pairs of gloves; they 're perfect beauties." 

"You '11 have to pay duty on them, going 
into France," I said, disagreeably. "Oh, 
won't you come and see the cathedral at least? 
It is Catalonian Gothic of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, and beautiful with a calm simplicity, 
though lacking the minuteness of detail which 
marks fourteenth century Gothic." 

"If you '11 keep still while I try on six pairs 



THE SPANISH GENOA. 347 

of gloves," said the Pessimist, graciously, 
"I '11 go to the cathedral with you." 

I resigned myself to my fate, and waited, 
making meditations upon the utter selfishness 
of womankind. 

The Pessimist was a monster to prefer 
gloves when I wanted naves and transepts. 
One uncomfortable idea popped into my head, 
that she might possibly be putting the boot 
on the other foot, and regarding me as equally 
inhuman for not preferring her pet amuse- 
ments. 

Such a thought being untranquillizing — to 
coin a word — I quickly put it aside, and took 
to wondering what had made her give in. 
Usually she shopped for hours at a time. 
Could it be that her pocket was empty? I 
was ashamed of myself for imagining such a 
thing, and felt very guilty when she turned 
around with her most engaging smile, and re- 
marked : 

"I 'm ready. We '11 go to the cathedral 
now, and anywhere else you like." 

"Let 's have lunch first," I said, guiltily 
conscious that I had wronged her. "I saw a 
charming cafe on the Rambla quite near here. 
I want to treat you to a Spanish ice." 

"Thank you," she said, and as amicably as 
two turtle doves we ate our ices, and started 
to the cathedral. 



WITH A .' SS/M/ST /.v SPAIN, 

Down the Calle Puerta Ferrisa to the Plaza 

Nueva we went, and stood before the cathedral, 
which is really beautiful. The belfry towers 
are very lofty, and the bell, the oldest in 
celona, tolled forth the mid-day Angelus 
as we paused before the great flight of steps 
which leads up to the building. Over the 
door is a strange bas-relief of the contest 
of Yilardel and the Dragon, a legendary story 
of Barcelona. 

The Moors — always blamed for everything 
— let loose their Dragon over the country- 
side when Vilardel was forced to give up to 
his swarthy enemies his castle of Vales. God 
tried him in many ways to see if he was worthy 
to kill the fearful beast, and at last, being 
satisfied of his piety, presented him with a 
miraculous sword, which would bisect the 
thickest trees, and cut chasms in rocks. 
Yilardel met the dragon, and killed him, 
crying, "Well done, mighty sword, and still 
more mighty arm of Vilardel!" Alas, for 
his pride! At the instant he spoke, a single 
drop of the dragon's blood fell dripping from 
the sword upon his arm. The blood was 
the deadliest poison, and the boaster instantly 
dropped dead, punished because he had not 
said, "Not unto us, O Lord! but unto Thee 
be the glory. " 

"Come," I said, "let us enter the church. 



THE SPANISH GEXOA. 349 

The interior is arranged in the French way, 
with an aisle and chapels around the apse. 
In the crypt is kept the body of Saint Eulalia. 
Do you want to go down?" 

"No, thank you. I 've had all the crypts I 
want, and am tired. You can go where you 
like. I mean to sit by this beautiful pillar 
and reflect upon my sins;" and my friend 
seated herself calmly. 

" Principally those of extravagance," I 
added, laughingly, as I turned away. 

I like the Pessimist. She 's like good wine, 
and improves with age. Her idiosyncrasies 
are so uncertain that she seldom bores one. 
But one of my favorite pastimes is wander- 
ing at will over some historic spot, without 
having to listen to a prosy guide droning out 
facts jumbled into an olla podrida. Neither 
do I like to do the droning and "personally 
conduct " my party, a la Cook's tourists- 
guide. I enjoyed Barcelona Cathedral as much 
as anything in Spain, but I have no neatly 
labeled facts about it, only a pleasant mem- 
ory of dim aisles, and splendid tombs and 
dreams of days when the vast naves resounded 
to martial tread in the times of stately pageant 
and romantic story — times when, if manners 
were ruder and punishments hastier, and 
hearts perhaps harder, the life was simpler, 
the purpose stronger, and duty the loadstar. 



35° WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIX. 

them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 
A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run, 
A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to kn 
Content as men-at-arms to cope 

Each with his fronting foe." 

Heedless of passing moments I wandered 
through the lovely cloisters, when some one at 
my elbow remarked, acidly. "When you have 
quite finished inspecting the remotest pinnacle 
of the roof, and the deepest depths of the 
lowest crypt, I am ready to return to the 
hotel. Not that I want to hurry you. but it 
is past the time for dejeuner a la fourehette, 
and I dare say even you will want some if you 
can 't get it 

I started guiltily. I had utterly forgotten 
the Pessimist, and I went with her meekly, 
afraid to mention that I wanted to see the 
church of Santa Maria del Pino, named from 
an image of the Virgin found in a pine tree, 
and upon the steeple of which a blessed pine 
is always placed on Palm Sunday. 

I also intended going to San Pedro de las 
Puellas, where the nuns once cut off their 
noses to prevent being taken by Al-Mansur's 
soldiers. Such a conquest of feminine vanity 
ought to be kept in remembrance, especially 
as Spanish noses are so pretty. 



THE SPANISH GENOA. 351 

We passed the Lonja or Exchange, a fine 
building dating from 1832, and the Casa de la 
Disputacion with the famous chapel of Saint 
George, where the most delightfully ugly gar- 
goyles peer down from the roof. The Gothic 
facade is one of the best in Spain; but I could 
not stop even to glance down the Calle del 
Obispo, for the Pessimist led me sternly on 
until we reached the pleasant dining-room of 
the Oriente. 

Seated at a table, with luncheon in progress, 
she thawed perceptibly, and at last I ventured 
a question on a subject over which I had been 
pondering for some time. 

"Pessimist," I said suddenly — for the way 
to get information from her is to attack her 
before she has time to think — "why did 
you leave the Rambla and go to the Cathe- 
dral?" 

"I hadn't another 'real,' she said 
thoughtlessly. 

"I knew it!" I cried, exultingly and 
viciously. "And now vengeance! You shall 
have no more, you spendthrift, since I keep 
the purse, until we 've seen all that we ought 
to see in Barcelona. To-morrow we leave, 
and this afternoon we shall drive out to Barce- 
loncta, the sailors' quarter, and Gracia, a 
lovely suburb, and after you 've been good all 



35- WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN, 

the afternoon you may wind up on the Ram- 
bla, and buy yourself poor again." 

"Humph!" said the Pessimist. "Evi- 
dently you think might is right." 

"No, but 'possession is nine-tenths;' and 
you 've spent your tenth, you see." 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

"ADIOS ESPAftA!" 




E must go," I said, as our 
train steamed out of the 
large station on the Paseo 
de Industria. "This is 
our last day in Spain, 
and we must make the 
most of it. I never ex- 
pected to grieve at leaving Barcelona, but even 
the waiter at our Fonda I regarded tenderly, 
because he was Spanish. I 'm glad we chose 
the route along the sea-coast, for the breeze is 
delightful. There is the bull-ring. The Cor- 
ridas are not good here, for the people are too 
Frenchy to care for them. Allah be praised! 
there 's the last glimpse of Barcelona. Charles 
the Fifth said he would rather be Count of 
Barcelona than king of the Romans, but I 
would rather be an Andalucian peasant than 
either." 

"I don't see how I ever got you out of 
Andalucia," said my friend. 

"Moral suasion," I answered. "Then I '11 

353 



354 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 

admit that I thought if the beginning of our 
journey was so agreeable, the end might be 
better. If I had known as much as I know 
now I 'd be on the Torre de la Vela listening 
to Diego's guitar at the present moment. 

" Badalona is our first stop. It was the 
Betulo of the Romans, and was and is famous 
for gardens and orange groves. 

"Next comes the Cartuja of Montalegre; 
and there 's a nice tale about the foun- 
dations. Two school boys were going home 
from the university of Barcelona, and stopped 
there to rest one day long ago. 

44 'If I am ever Pope,' said one. 4 I shall 
build a convent here.' 

44 4 Very well; when you do,' replied the 
other, 4 I will come and live in it.' 

4 'Years passed by, when one day a friar 
went to Rome, sent thither to see the Holy 
Father. What was his surprise to see in Pope 
Nicholas V. his old schoolmate, and the prom- 
ised convent at Montalegre was built, and 
Fray Juan de Nco given charge of it. 

44 It was nearly destroyed during the war of 
1835, but has been repaired. After Monta- 
legre we come to Mongat, and here is the cas- 
tle where the people made such a wonderful 
defense in 1808. They stood out four days 
against all of Sccchi's division, and when the 
place was captured at last, by means of light 



"AD/OS ESP ANA." 355 

guns and many soldiers, not one of the gar- 
rison lived to be taken captive." 

''They were brave fellows, as all Spanish 
seem to be, peasant as well as prince," said 
the Pessimist. 

"The peasants are often the bravest," I said. 

" ' Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry 

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit thy side; 
Have seen, yet dauntless stood, 'gainst fortune fought 
and died!' 

"Now we 're approaching Gerona. See how 
beautifully the river winds about. It 's a fine 
city, absolutely defunct as to any activity, 
but full of tradition and romance, and thor- 
oughly Spanish. Every year they have what 
is called the ' Profaso de la Tramontana,' a pil- 
grimage to the church of Nuestra Sefiora de 
Requenasens, and the many pilgrims go thither 
to pray fervently that the north wind may be 
tempered to the shorn lamb of Gerona." 

'Where is Figueras?" asked the Pessimist, 
a trifle sleepily, for she took frequent naps 
when traveling — a delightful habit of hers 
which enabled me to get thoroughly read up 
in the guide-book between times, and then 
pour my information upon her. 

'Figueras is not faraway, and has the most 
important citadel in Catalufia. It is almost 
impregnable. The castle crowning a rock is 
shaped like an irregular pentagon, and the 



35 6 WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPA /.v. 

fortifications arc wonderful. The cisterns are 
inexhaustible. There are bomb-proof arsenals, 
stabling for five hundred horses, and barracks 
for twenty thousand soldiers. The fortress 
cost one million four hundred and twenty-five 
thousand dollars, and is the key of the whole 
frontier. 

"We are nearing the Pyrenees now, and 
what a superb chain they are ! From Biscay 
and Biarritz to Cerbere and the Mediterranean 
the mountains are full of interest for scenery 
and fact and legend." 

"Tell me all about everything," said my 
companion, and she settled herself comfortably 
to listen. 

"Some day we '11 go to Biarritz, and take a 
trip through the whole Pyrenees. It 's quite 
delightful over at the opposite end from where 
we are now. Some one says of this part, 
''Tis little known, save by the smuggler, the 
flying Carlist, and the buck or izard.' I 'm 
not well acquainted with the last three 
varieties, but people seem to be able to be 
smugglers with perfect ease." 

"They are n't," said my companion guiltily. 
"That Barcelona lace is eating a hole in my 
pocket at the present moment. If you think 
I am smuggling 'with ease ' you 're very much 
mistaken. It 's far worse than the Spartan 
boy and the fox. " 



"ADIOS ESP ANA." 357 

I laughed maliciously. I had not been sure 
the shoe would fit the Pessimist, but had 
strongly suspected as much. "If you mean 
to smuggle you must n't look so self-conscious. 
That 's just like a woman. She 's always 
ashamed to do what she 's ashamed of." 

"You need n't be so superior. I believe 
you 've tried it, and that 's why you know so 
much," said she. I changed the subject, 
without jar, by remarking 

"Here are our guards. How I shall hate 
to leave them behind when we reach Cerbe>e. 
They only go as far as the border, and I 'm 
sorry to say they are not a French institu- 
tion." 

"What are they, anyhow?" asked my 
friend, as we stopped at a little station, and 
the two vigilantes walked slowly past our win- 
dow with their alert yet stately tread. 

"They are the best and most reliable men 
selected from the police corps, and are sent 
two at a time to take care of every railway 
train. In the time of brigandage this used to 
be a very necessary precaution, and while 
now, it 's not absolutely so, it 's very consol- 
ing to feel we have two brave fellows, well- 
armed, and always ready to defend us in case 
of any danger. They 're called guardias 
ck'iles, and are always civil and pleasant." 
'They 're certainly a picturesque addition 



WITH A PESSIMIST IN SPAIN. 
to the Landscape/ 1 said my friend, as we 

looked at the tall figures ill cloaks and cocked 

hats. 

"Look there!" I exclaimed. "There's a 
living exposition of the old proverb: 'Quien a 
buen arbol se arrima, buena sombra le cobija. ' 
i She who leans against a sturdy tree is secure 
in pleasant shade). Look at that peasant -irl 

linst the shade of the olive tree, with the 
stalwart peasant's arm about her. How 
happy they both look under that matchless 
lapis lazuli sky! Xo matter if they grow old 
and withered and worn with toil and wind 
and weather, the}- 've had their da; 

"If you talk like that I shall begin to wish 
I were a Spanish peasant." 

"Many Spanish peasants never see a coin 
except from chance tourist-. " I answered. 
44 The\- raise barely enough potatoes and rye 
to support life, but they seem contented." 

We were nearing Port Bou, the last Spanish 
town, a rambling village with low picturesque 
houses and a fine view of sea and mountains. 

'The Moors left Andalucia by the Puerta de 
•jenaperros (the Gate of Infidel Dogs)," I 
murmured, 44 but we seem to be departing 
from Spain by the Gate of Angels. Between 
the perfect hues of sea and sky, it 's all so won- 
derfully fair it is almost as if Paradise lay be- 



"AD/OS ESP ANA." 359 

yond those snowy mountains. Even music is 

not wanting, for 

" ' I hear 
Once more the music of the mountaineer, 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful melodies of Spain's heroic race.' " 

"What did you like best in Spain?" asked a 
sleepy voice, as the Pessimist aroused herself. 

"Oh, fie upon you!" I answered. "That 
question 's a crime. How can I tell, where 
each city is so different, each charm so varied, 
and all so delightful!" 

"Why do you travel at all if you can 't tell 
what you like?" she asked, severely. 

" 'The universe is a kind of book, of which 
one has read only the first page, when one has 
seen only his own country. I have traveled 
much, and all the imperfections which I have 
seen in different peoples have reconciled me 
with my own land. If I derived no other 
benefits from my travels than that, I should 
regret neither the trials nor the fatigues,' 
Monsieur de Montbrou said. I confess that 
while I have enjoyed every minute of our trip, 
that there are some things truly American 
which I shall hail with delight — an ice cream 
soda, for instance." 

"My native land's the best!" sighed the 
Pessimist, waxing sentimental. 



360 WITH A PESSIMIST IX SPAI.Y. 

:e fashion to regard Spaniards as 
monsters or whited sepulchres or ravening 
)r something unpleasant of a like 
nature/' I said, "but we have traveled from 
Gibraltar to France, and had nothing but 
friendliness and courtesy. The country is 
wonderful. There are mines of literary wond- 
ers and delights and exquisite seen, 
displayed to one's mental or physical. I 
feel as if my Spaniards had opened to me as 
ne. -Id- as Columbus opened for then 

5 a sort of ' with all thv faults, 

I love thee still, O Spaf: aid my friend! 

"In spite of her faults, not with them/* I 

answered; and then the train stopped, and the 

guard cried, "Cerbere 

"Our first French village!" said the Pe^ 
la Fram 
Nay. I said — and there was a lump in r 
throat—* ' before one cries 4 Long live the King 
one should at Ic '/> Roi est nu> 

Then I looked backward whence we had 
come, at the sparkling waters of the ; e 

green vales bright in the warm June sunshine, 
the £ ■ here tall spires cleft the 

cloud :h e background of mountain 

and white. "Farewell," I murmured. 
"Adios. Espafla! Vaya usted con Dios 



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